Above the Line
by Galythia
Summary: Alfred Jones is an up-and-coming actor that has hearts swooning at every turn. Arthur Kirkland, a prodigy in his field, is assigned to be his new makeup artist. Many have faltered in his position before, but the Brit is determined to succeed where others have failed. But not all is as it appears, and falling in love had not been written in Arthur's contract. (Very strong seme US)
1. Foundation

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of Hetalia.

**Background: **This fic is written for Haku's birthday! It's not a one-shot, though, so I'm hoping I'll be able to end it sometime before her next birthday, hahaha. It's a conglomeration of ideas she's dropped to me on Twitter from time to time. And it's rated M for a very steamy reason (future chapters, with a **_very_ strong seme-US though it might not appear to be at first**). I hope you enjoy! ;D

Also, there's like barely any angst. I'm trying to stay away from that for a bit over here.

* * *

**— 1. Foundation —**

* * *

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked, probably as the fifteenth time he had done so that car ride. His manager, ever the frustrating French git, only smiled amusedly as he gently tipped the wheel for a slow turn down onto yet another one of Hollywood's expansive boulevards.

"I told you already, mon ami," Francis murmured, as he kept his eyes carefully trained upon the road. "I am taking you to your new job."

"You make it sound like I have only _one_," Arthur muttered as he crossed his arms in irritation. "As a makeup artist, especially one with my skill and versatility—"

"Yeah, you're busy with multiple sets," Francis chuckled. "You'd think I would know that, being your manager and all. Most artists don't even have managers, Arthur. _That_ in and of itself should be a testament to your popular demand."

Francis took the time to glance over briefly, a ghost of a mischievous smile upon his thin lips. "I have a feeling though, mon ami, that after you learn who it is, you'll see that won't have the time to work for anyone else... and I'm quite sure the actor won't let you, either." Francis was almost glowing with the joy of his inside joke. "The man likes exclusivity."

Arthur's curiosity betrayed himself as he struggled to be silently disgruntled at all the secrecy. He wanted to ignore the manager and lay it on thick just how much he was unhappy with the situation, but after a moment of great effort not to do so, Arthur ended up shooting Francis a questioning look.

"I'm betting you're not going to tell me who it is if I ask again, are you?" the artist asked exasperatedly. This car ride seemed far longer than the ten minutes his watch told him it had been so far.

"Seven-hundredth time is not the charm, non," Francis replied, smiling as he turned the wheel to head down yet another wide road. The Frenchman liked car rides around Hollywood, if only because it gave him plenty of ideas for ostentatious living when he would be rich enough to do so.

Notice, it wasn't an "if." Francis always had big plans, and judging from the way Arthur's career was going, these plans could become reality quite soon.

"Just enjoy the ride, mon ami," the manager murmured soothingly as he glanced up to check his rearview mirror. "We're almost there."

The English artist sighed and slumped down ever so slightly in his seat, shaking his head. He turned to look out his side window, sure that he would have strangled Francis by now if the man wasn't in charge of getting them where they needed to go. As much as Arthur was already angry with how the day was going, and as much as he hated the games that Francis liked to play, Arthur was a professional above all.

And professionals knew when to not commit murder on annoying French idiots.

It seemed that Francis had been speaking the truth, however, for soon they were turning into the filming area of Sunflower Studios, one of the busiest and most bustling locations in all of Hollywood. It was home to a variety of movie sets, and was in a constant hubbub as multiple productions often filmed there at once.

Arthur sat up when he recognized where they were, his irritation temporarily forgotten. Sunflower was home to the best of the best—movies, actors, producers, anything and everything. Makeup artists included. Arthur could practically smell the money in the air, and if this was where his job was to be, it was likely then that a good chunk of that green would end up floating right into his pocket.

Of course, it wasn't as if being an average makeup artist paid much, and making a living on it was a far cry from easy. But that was the thing about Hollywood, wasn't it? No one here ever settled on just "average," least of all Arthur Kirkland, artist extraordinaire.

The Briton managed to tear his eyes away from the occasional set glimpses he saw far down the various roads just to return his attention to his manager.

"Francis, where—"

"Just observe, mon ami," Francis murmured with a small twinkling smile, stopping as he presented his clearance pass for the fourth time to yet another guard who looked bored beyond his wits and deathly tired to boot. Arthur didn't blame the man; June in Hollywood was already a hellish blaze, and it wasn't even high summer yet.

As the car began to move once again, Arthur was about to argue back in exasperation for the _nth_ time when he spotted a sign to their left. His eyes widened, especially as Francis made a move to turn down that road. Arthur's heart sped up and he involuntarily gripped the seat, though he at least managed to maintain the perfect blasé expression upon his face. Subtle.

"Viewfinder?" the makeup artist asked breathlessly, tasting the name of the movie upon his lips as if it were a newly ripened fruit. It was delicious.

"Oui," Francis replied, looking quite smug as he pulled over for one last checkpoint. Security was especially tight on this movie, considering it was predicted to be the biggest blockbuster of the year, if not of the past decade. With the combination of actors, one of the best movie music composers, and the most famous producer/director, it had been a hit from before the screenwriting had even begun. And of course, that meant that all the positions from water boy to caterer had been decided and filled from at least six years ago. An opening slot was absolutely unheard of.

The Frenchman pulled over into the vast parking area of the set, which was far larger and fuller than any other in Sunflower Studios.

"You've outdone yourself," Arthur murmured, causing Francis to glance over as he turned off the engine. Coming from Arthur, those words meant a lot. It was probably the only piece of praise Arthur would ever allow the Frenchman in their whole partnership together, and it was a compliment so hard won that it had taken only the biggest movie of the season to get it.

Arthur cleared his throat as he stepped out of the car, a little bit of his initial shock gone as he tried to reign in his heartbeat. He was beyond excited, and his mind was actually going a bit crazy. After a decade or so in the industry, it wasn't easy for Arthur to lose his cool like that, even if just in his head, but there were simply some things that were hard to take at face value with a calm expression, especially the opportunity to work on the set of "Viewfinder." The movie was to be absolutely _legendary_.

"How did you land this?" Arthur asked, betraying nothing of his internal giddiness and bubbling anticipation in his practiced calm speech.

"That I didn't do," Francis admitted, hands in his pockets as he began to walk. "You were requested."

"What? I was?" The makeup artist glanced over in surprise, almost pausing mid-step. Then he tried to shrug nonchalantly and continue on with greater composure. "I mean, yeah. Of course I was."

_They should have requested me from the very beginning_, Arthur amended, trying to recover some of his cool and easy confidence that bordered upon arrogance. But it wasn't arrogance if it was truth, was it? He knew he was good at what he did. He just wasn't the best, but the fact that he was here now—especially by somebody's request—meant that he was damn close.

"When do I start?" Arthur asked cooly, having been quick to find his calm. Professionalism was the name of the game, and he'd been playing it from before some of these actors had even been born.

"Now," Francis said, as he pulled aside the flap that led to the main makeshift tent and walked right in.

* * *

"That's what we're going to do, so just watch them come in from the left," the director, Mr. Tino Väinämöinen, spoke as he finished explaining the scene they were about to film to Arthur. The artist's duty was to watch and observe, then explain to the director what he thought he was called here to do. It was almost a test, of sorts, but Arthur didn't mind. He knew he would pass.

Not many makeup artists received such great one-on-one treatment, but this was a special case. Arthur was well known, to say the least. His name was whispered in the halls, his face recognized by almost all in the makeup side of the movie industry, and someone had likely been fired for his sake just to get him here.

Arthur Kirkland, ladies and gentlemen. At the young age of twenty-four, he wasn't known as a movie makeup prodigy for nothing.

"Ready?" Tino asked. Arthur nodded from his seat right beside the director, his bright eyes already focused upon the screen. Francis had wandered off to get some coffee or something. A baguette, some cheese and an eiffel tower—whatever it was that the Frenchman did in his spare time.

The director leaned back and called for filming to start. Immediately, Arthur's eyes focused on nothing else but the screen before him, his mind already working through makeup analysis of characters that hadn't even made it onto the scene yet. It was a force of habit, and one that he had no desire ever to get rid of.

Arthur had never had to explain himself before, but then again, he had never worked on the set of any Väinämöinen production. Things worked differently around here, which was probably why the movies that stemmed from such an environment were always a massive hit. There was an inexplicable magic in the air that danced upon your tongue, the sweet taste of imminent success and the promise of good fortune. Not to mention the smell of already-earned money.

The first few actors appeared in the scene, surprising Arthur just a little. His initial shock at appearing on set and then his focus upon makeup analysis had caused such a lapse in memory that he had all but forgotten who was actually working in the movie. A great deal of the big names were there, and even the shot Arthur was witnessing just then was surely already worth a few million dollars in people power.

His eyes quickly flittered over the faces, frowning in distaste as he saw a few distortions here and there in the makeup. There was uneven application of base colors, too much shadow on one eye and not the other, overemphasis of cheekbones, etc. The list was endless, but it was subtle enough that only a pro like Arthur and a handful of other names would notice. Undoubtedly though, that handful of other people were likely they themselves on set as well, so why were there such sloppy mistakes?

With a small sigh, the artist pulled out his notebook to begin annotating down corrections when the director held up a hand for him to stop. "You're not in charge of any of these actors," Tino explained. "I just wanted you to see them. You're in charge of..." there was a pause as the scene kept rolling, past all the dialogue and then into the big entrance of the main character.

"Him."

Arthur dropped his pencil.

In a great break of professionalism, Arthur stared slack-jawed at the actor who had just appeared on the screen. There was barely even any imperfection in the makeup whatsoever, to be honest, but that wasn't what had silenced the artist. It was the actor himself, whom Arthur had woefully forgotten was appearing in the movie. (Though now that he thought about it, he had no idea how he could have possibly let it slip his mind, even for a moment.)

Yet there the man was, clad in a beautiful suit specifically tailored to his very fine figure, hair slicked back except for that trademark cowlick, his eyes ablaze with hellish intensity and grim determination. Ever recognizable, ever handsome, and one of the youngest names to grace the big leagues—Alfred F. Jones.

"You have got to be kidding me..."

Arthur was going to kill Francis for this, professionalism or not.

* * *

The makeup artist paced restlessly around in his personal makeup trailer as he waited for the fated encounter that was sure to happen at any moment. Usually, he would be placed with at least one or two other artists, but given that he now knew for whom he was working, it came as no surprise that Arthur was allotted quite a few luxuries with the job.

But God, it really was _Alfred Jones_.

Arthur was really going to be working for him, spending time with him, getting the chance to touch that beautiful face that seemed softer than anything Arthur could ever even dream of. It was an absolute miracle that most would kill for.

_But Arthur hated it. _

This was the one actor he told Francis he would never work for.

The artist's palms were sweaty as he wiped them for the hundredth time against the rough material of his new jetblack jeans. Francis had told him to dress nicely for the occasion, but the stupid frog (who had been impossible to find after the scene filming, the crafty bastard) had never mentioned that Arthur ought to have been dressed in a suit or something. This was likely to be the biggest meeting of his _life_, after all. It was a career decider, working for Alfred Jones—if not only because people rarely survived it.

Well, that might have been a bit too morbid a way to phrase things, but the fact of the matter was that no makeup artist had ever worked with Jones for more than half a movie without being replaced. No one quite knew why, since none of the replaced artists ever talked about it. But as it stood, it was getting a bit difficult to find new names who were good enough to do what was needed, and since Arthur always refused the job when offered to him, there was often no one else (because face it, he wasn't going to offer himself up to be tossed away just like any other rag by an actor four years his junior; he had better things to do. Plus, he was highly suspicious of Alfred's perfect character and reputation).

However, the production company must have been desperate and at their wit's end, and Francis must have been offered a whole boatload of money if he had actually accepted the job, especially when he knew full well the bloody fate that awaited him once Arthur found him again. Francis would _pay_.

Before Arthur could continue his dark and brooding train of thought, he heard the door behind him jiggle ever so slightly. The makeup artist froze, refusing to turn around. Every fiber of his being was hoping that it was Francis, even though his mind was already resigned to the fact that he'd have to deal with Jones instead.

There was the soft padding of footsteps as whoever it was climbed onto the trailer, his breathing calm and even, so unlike Arthur's. The makeup artist closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting down his heart which was struggling to climb right out of his throat. He felt sick, ready to hurl. God he didn't want to be there. This was the last job offer he would have ever taken, and if he had remembered in time just who was appearing in "Viewfinder," he would have forced Francis to turn back.

The sound of someone clearing his throat came from behind the artist, causing the Briton to turn around.

And there Alfred Jones was, in the flesh.

He was still dressed as he had been in the last scene. For a moment, Arthur lost his train of thought as he stared dumbfounded, his eyes doing a quick appreciative rundown of Alfred's whole package, from the flawless coloring of his hair to the polished shine of his loafers. His beauty was unmistakable, and in person, Alfred was even more breathtaking than he was on screen. God, most makeup artists—most _people—_would die for even one chance to touch that skin. Maybe Arthur should have been more grateful.

"So, are you the new guy they sent in?" Alfred asked with a smile, hands in his pockets, the sheer epitome of charm.

And Arthur was dumbfounded.

Of course, based on the way the actor appeared in the movies, always as the gentleman or as the sweet boy from Kansas archetype, it was no surprise that Alfred was a sweet soul. He was also known around his sets for being the ever-helpful, caring guy, his reputation cultured to be the bright and shining 20-year-old who was always beaming at his fans or winking at the camera during interviews.

Arthur knew that, but for some reason, he had never quite believed it, which was why he avoided working with Alfred so much. After all, someone who went through makeup artists like used tissues, often without rhyme or reason, couldn't have been all that great, could he? There had to be some extremely terrible secret hidden away to compensate for it, and Arthur had never been up for finding out exactly what that was.

But yet here Alfred stood, smiling right at Arthur, hand extended in greeting. So earnest and so kind—and already making Arthur doubt his until recently firm assumptions.

"I'm Alfred Jones."

Arthur stared—he couldn't help himself—as he absentmindedly extended a hand in return for a firm and warm handshake, still trying to figure out just what he thought of the kid. Maybe this whole thing wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the people were right, and Alfred Jones was the perfect gentleman in addition to having the perfect face. Was that even humanly possible?

"I... I know who you are," the artist spoke, as he observed the way those bright blue eyes were reflected in the sunlight streaming in from the window. There was so much he could do with that, so many color combinations and shading styles... The possibilities were endless.

"I'm—"

"Arthur Kirkland," Alfred finished. The way he had said the artist's name caused him to shudder involuntarily. That voice was also better in person than it was on screen. In fact, everything about Alfred in general was better in the flesh. It was almost surreal.

"Nice to meet you," the actor murmured, his smile lighting up his whole expression. Alfred grabbed an unopened water bottle from a nearby counter and took a sip before continuing. "So when do we start?"

Arthur was still staring, his mind working through his temporary surprise at how _charming_ Alfred Jones could be. Had Arthur been wrong? Was Alfred really as sweet as everyone actually thought he was? Had Arthur been an idiot this whole time in his great effort to avoid ever working with Jones, just because of his (now seemingly stupid) suspicions?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"We can start now, if you'd like..." Arthur said slowly. "Please take a seat..."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

First off, no the title of the movie has nothing to do with the yaoi manga "My Loveprize in Viewfinder." I just like the name (though I won't deny that I might take elements of good seme-ism from the manga every now and then ;]).

I am crazy for making this a multi-chapter fic, though, but I couldn't leave this idea as just a one-shot. I just sort of fell in love with the concept as I thought more and more about it. And since Haku's amazing, I don't mind making it a long 'un for her birthday. That being said:

**Happy birthday, Haku!**

I know nothing about Hollywood, save for the fact that I lived in L.A. once upon a time. I don't know how filming works, how productions go, etc. The only things I know about the sfx makeup or movie makeup come from the manga "Gimmick!" and various snippets I've read here and there. So this story isn't going to be accurate in that sense, I'm sorry. OTL

But I'm here just to have fun with it and live out my dream of just writing _paragraphs_ about Alfred's appearance and the effect he has on Arthur. This is sort of like my guilty pleasure fic in addition to being Haku's birthday fic, with seme Alfred (hopefully) dripping sexiness (not yet, but you'll see).

I'll try to update this quickly and in parallel with ANSCR!

Happy birthday, once again~! I hope you like it when it's done! :D

- Galythia

P.S. Al is 20 in this, and Arthur is 24. Arthur's been working on makeup from when he was like thirteen or something. Very young, and very good at what he does.


	2. Color Theory

**— 2. Color Theory —**

* * *

Arthur gently washed his hands in the sink on the far side of the trailer, scrubbing at his knuckles with perfunctory motions as he kept a careful eye on the actor sitting only a few meters away. The twenty-year-old was swinging his legs back and forth, taking occasional sips of water as if he were no more than a child excited and ready to get his haircut.

It was absolutely endearing, actually, though Arthur stopped his thoughts at that point, daring to go no further. After spending the past four years silently watching Alfred's startlingly fast climb to fame, ever since his first appearance in a shampoo commercial at sixteen, all the while harboring a deep suspicion for the genuineness of such a sweet act, it was difficult for the artist to suddenly change his stance upon the matter.

However, based on the way Alfred was acting now, the change was already happening, whether Arthur welcomed it or not.

"What time do you have to be back on set?" Arthur asked, more so because he needed to keep an eye on time rather than because he wanted to make small talk. Arthur wasn't really one for conversation when there was work to be done.

Alfred shrugged. "No idea."

The artist dried his hands with a soft towel, which he then partially stuck into his back pocket before walking back over to where Alfred was sitting. He began to prepare his materials, which involved a quick read-through of the blocking and lighting for the next scene before anything else went under way.

The Briton wanted to laugh at the fact that the actor didn't know his own schedule—though that was probably because everyone else worked to fit whatever Alfred wanted to do. Keeping the famous and incredibly rich and powerful actor happy seemed to be one of the top priorities. What a lucky bastard. And to top it all off, the hapless kid didn't even seem to know his own worth, or if he did, he didn't show it.

Arthur took a deep breath, glancing back toward Alfred once again—and immediately that breath was lost.

Alfred was _literally _breathtaking.

The artist couldn't help but stare as he observed that flawless skin, those accentuated cheekbones, that perfectly sculpted nose that gave way to the most beautiful set of eyes Arthur had ever seen. Every time the makeup artist looked away, it seemed that his gaze would return to an even greater, more transfixing sight than before. How was that even physically possible?

"… Is something wrong?" Alfred asked, when he noticed that Arthur had been staring for quite a while. His tone was all sincere curiosity. God, how had Arthur ever doubted the authenticity of this kid's sweet personality? He was practically dripping earnestness and innocent boyishness. It was adorable.

Perhaps too adorable?

Nah.

"Nothing's wrong…" Arthur murmured absentmindedly as he slowly placed the script back down upon the table, not really caring if it stayed there or fell off. He had better things with which to occupy his attention at the present moment. "You…"

Involuntarily, Arthur reached up to touch that invitingly rosy skin, but he stopped himself last minute, his fingers a hair's breadth away from brushing against those accentuated cheekbones. He always wore gloves when he worked, mostly because he didn't want the oils from his own fingers to mix and mar the medium of his materials. Rarely did Arthur forget, but in the face of such a pleasant sight as the actor before him, the artist almost did.

If nothing else, _that_ in and of itself was already a testament to just how attractive Alfred Jones was—and yet again, the kid didn't even seem to know the effect he had on those around him.

It was almost unbelievable. Almost.

Quickly and with well-rehearsed movements, Arthur pulled on his gloves and readied himself to examine the texture of the actor's skin. Each person's was different, and thus, a seasoned makeup artist would have to layer the makeup differently, use different brands, highlight different colors, etc. from actor to actor. Arthur could only learn which to use and which to disregard by very careful observation, added with some level of trial and error.

The artist leaned in closely, almost without knowing it, as it was a force of habit nowadays. He usually kept a bit of distance, and his lingering suspicions regarding the actor did hold him back ever so slightly, but the draw of such smooth-looking skin countered that precaution almost completely.

Alfred didn't back away like the makeup artist had expected him to. Most other actors were alarmed at the sudden lack of space involved in Arthur's unique methods, though Arthur found that funny, considering how many people actors so often kissed, and how close they often had to stand to each other when acting to make it even look remotely normal within a camera shot. Compared to that, surely this wasn't nearly as bad.

However, unlike the previous actors Arthur had worked with, Alfred kept still. In fact, as Arthur observed Alfred's skin, Alfred seemed to be observing Arthur in return. The artist could feel the actor's eyes sweep over his face, could feel it slide down his neck, as if it were memorizing every single angle and every single curve. If Arthur didn't know any better, he would have described the gaze as almost predatorial.

But after such a blatant display of gentle charisma, surely that was merely Arthur's raging suspicions coupled with his inventive imagination acting up once again.

Surely.

Nevertheless, the artist cleared his throat, about to look away and say something to break the silence—a rare desire—when his fingers finally brushed against Alfred's cheek for the very first time—and he froze.

"Are you not wearing any makeup?" Arthur breathed, temporarily distracted from the matter of Alfred's stare. Apparently, that distracted Alfred too, for the actor seemed to change demeanor completely once again as he sat up a bit and shook his head.

"No—at least, I don't think so. Not a lot," Alfred laughed, smiling for god knows why. Honestly, he seemed never to need a reason to be as happy-go-lucky as he was. "The director said something about having you observe my natural flaws."

"Right…" Arthur replied absentmindedly, remembering the conversation he had held with the director post-scene. Tino had seemed quite smug with himself when Arthur had almost even praised the makeup job done upon Alfred's face, the skill necessary to pull off that lightning, the smoothness of the base coloring, the even blend of skin tones and shading…

Now that he knew it was practically all natural, he felt like an absolute fool. It was humiliating for one of his skill and caliber to not have been able to see through that, and he would have been angry—at both Alfred and Tino—for having tricked him (even though it wasn't really their fault), had he not been floored by the fact that, well, it _was_ natural.

If anyone would have told him that fact before today, he would have laughed at them right in the face for telling such blatant lies and for having the audacity to think that Arthur would have actually believed in it for even a moment.

Well, who was laughing now?

Arthur pressed down ever so slightly to see if any possible foundation would crack or at least mar a little bit under the weight, but there was nothing giving way but skin.

It was incredible, and yes, absolutely unbelievable.

He felt around a bit more, becoming bolder and bolder with each move, as Alfred didn't seem to mind the poking and prodding whatsoever. After further exploration, Arthur learned that the actor was actually wearing a few basic layers and aspects, namely eye and cheek makeup in order to make the lighting look even remotely okay. But he was wearing far less than Arthur had anticipated after having observed the shot, and the artist was almost at a loss for words.

"Bloody hell…" Arthur whispered, his warm breath lingering over Alfred's skin in a way that made the actor lick his lips anticipatorily. But Arthur's attention was far too occupied with observing the side of Alfred's left cheek to notice that Alfred himself was occupied with observing Arthur's cheeks as well. His other cheeks, that is.

That nice ass, accentuated by the fact that the artist was leaning over, stretching his skinny jeans to the maximum point, was a rare beauty that Alfred appreciated to no end. Good butts were hard to come by, and the actor allowed himself to enjoy this view reflected in the mirror quite a bit, taking it all in while he still could.

However, soon enough, he had to stop as Arthur stood back up, his face demanding attention now, rather than his delectable behind. Well, Alfred could play along. After all, that was what actors were good at.

"What is your skin care regimen?" Arthur asked, still stunned. He had to force himself to move about his job and not stare further like an idiot. Blindly, Arthur searched around in his bag as he tried to grasp even remotely where to begin with this already flawless face.

"Don't know," Alfred shrugged, smiling that innocently boyish smile once again. "Whatever they prescribe to me, I guess. It's usually a series of unmarked bottles, because of endorsement risks and all that." Alfred swiveled a bit in his chair, taking another sip of water.

Arthur's eyes, which had been observing the effect of the trailer's lightning upon Alfred's eyelashes, quickly flashed down to the actor's bobbing Adam's apple before coming back up once again. The movement was small, involuntary, and easily dismissible, but it had not escaped Alfred's attention. Inwardly, the actor smirked. This relationship was already off to a great start.

"Commercials would tell you that my face is the result of Clinique and Neutrogena, but we both know they suck and have terrible results." Alfred spun the bottle around and tossed it back and forth between his hands. "They do pay well, though." He winked and laughed, managing to seem so innocent yet far more intelligent than he had initially let on.

"Yeah." Arthur nodded in agreement, though the majority of his attention was still bent on assessing his plan of action from that point onward. He was quickly learning that there was more to the actor than first met the eye, though what lay underneath seemed just as good, if not better, than what came across as the first impression. His suspicions seemed clearly unfounded now, and he felt almost bad for it. It was highly unfair of him, after all.

At long last, Arthur shook himself out of his daze and clasped his hands together, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his neck.

"Okay," he announced, now that he had finally decided where to begin. "Close your eyes and lean back."

Alfred complied wordlessly, settling into his comfortable leather chair. He was curious as to what Arthur would do, considering each makeup artist had his or her own methods and opinions. Some were better than others, though at the end of the day, it mainly fell to who expressed best what Alfred had to offer. Artists were only as good as how much their own ideas agreed with that of their acting charge, and sometimes, they just naturally didn't mesh.

Of course, Alfred was hoping for the opposite this time around. That firm ass wrapped in that perfectly fitting pair of dark skinny jeans could stay right where it was, thank you very much.

Arthur picked up a cotton pad and some cleansing water and began. He swabbed gently at that skin, cleaning away whatever vestiges the former makeup artist had applied. He'd start fresh, ensuring that whatever greatness came from this—and whatever mistakes, as well—would be purely his own.

The artist then rubbed moisturizer into the skin (which he noted was practically unnecessary, considering how soft it already was, but, as was many things, it was again a force of habit). His gentle but firm hands traveled from the forehead all the way down behind the ears, lingering slightly longer than necessary upon those gorgeous cheeks before moving down to the neck.

That last bit surprised Alfred, who laughed a bit as he shifted in his seat. It tickled for the first few seconds that it took for the actor to get used to those massaging motions smoothing over his taut neck muscles, and then he fell into pure bliss. Arthur could work wonders with those hands—hands which Alfred was sure would be surprisingly soft underneath those gloves. Most artists had rough fingers, hardened by overexposure to a variety of chemicals and surfaces, but Alfred could tell that Arthur's were different—much like the artist himself was different.

Arthur Kirkland just went about things in a unique way, seeming to put his whole being into his work, even with such a simple thing as the initial moisturizing step. Most other artists would have been done in five minutes, but Alfred swore this massage had been going on for at least fifteen already. And that's what it was! A massage! The movements were firm, each press into the skin filled with purpose and almost a desire to infuse Alfred's very skin with Arthur's vision and ideas.

It was incredibly relaxing yet exhilarating. Alfred knew he had been right to force his manager into getting down this ever-elusive Arthur Kirkland once and for all. That's right. It was he who had made the move to request this artist by name, he who had thrown his money around, he who had watched the proceedings to personally ensure that Arthur Kirkland, artist extraordinaire, was captur—err, hired.

And it was worth every single penny.

Alfred let his shoulders droop as he relaxed even further into bliss. Arthur didn't speak whatsoever as he worked, which was welcome, actually. Artists had this tendency to talk excessively, which either quickly bored Alfred or annoyed him to no end, since he had enough of people talking _at_ him during the rest of his waking hours already.

This peace and quiet, broken only by the soothing softness of Arthur's breathing, was something the actor knew he could easily and quickly get used to.

Arthur was glad that Alfred's eyes were closed, since he was sure that the actor would have been scared off by just how often Arthur had stopped to stare. His fingers still worked, but his eyes and mind were far removed from the present task, opting instead to take a sort of guilty pleasure scan of this famous actor's face instead. There was simply so much to look at, so much to think about. Each subsequent glance-over revealed something new, and Arthur's brain was greedily taking it all in.

There were so many avenues down which he could go, so many options from which he could pick. It was difficult for him to disguise his excitement, actually, despite his initial misgivings regarding working with Alfred F. Jones. With such a good foundation already there, Arthur could devote much more of his time to details and experimentation. He had time to erase, start over, try and try again. It was like his personal playground, and he very much felt like a kid again, ready to embark on his first adventure.

Thus, Arthur wasted no time and no breath upon idle chit-chat as he quickly decided between brands of foundation (and a _tiny_ bit of concealer) and began into laying down the basic necessities. He had to undo his moves a few times as he tried different shades and brand names, even referencing the script once or twice to remind himself of the blocking.

However, Arthur was not only a professional, but he was also the best of the lot, and that meant he had a good memory for details and a good eye for what worked and what didn't. Thus, it was only a short time before the preliminaries were through and Arthur could clear aside that child's play for the real fun, the actual nitty-gritty work of makeup artistry.

Colors, definition, and focus.

It only took Arthur a moment of indecision and one last glance at the script before he sized up his shoulders and squared away his mind. Alfred's eyes were spectacular, stunning and indescribable, and they were undoubtedly the focus of each shot. They had to be, for it'd be the greatest crime of cinematography otherwise. Arthur didn't care if Director Väinämöinen or anyone else disagreed. He'd make them see the truth.

"Open your eyes," Arthur requested, needing the reference so he could highlight the correct colors. Plus, he couldn't lie to himself and say that he wasn't looking forward to seeing that gem-like beauty once again.

"Please," the artist added as an afterthought, his dark and serious mood already softening up a bit to the sweet character that was Alfred F. Jones. How could he resist those dimpled cheeks?

Alfred took a deep breath and slowly let his eyes flutter open, his eyelashes catching the light in a way that made Arthur pause. The artist wasn't swooning. He really wasn't. Really.

Yeah, sure.

Arthur shook his head and pressed onward, past that stupid cloud in his mind and temporary lapse of judgment. He leaned in a bit once again to observe the smaller flecks of color he could draw out… and he promptly leaned back, shooting Alfred the most disbelieving look.

What sort of winter blue eyes had the audacity to have flecks of _gold_ in them? And silver, too, with a small hint of olive—and was that purple?

The artist wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, seeing as this situation only got crazier and crazier. Just when he thought his options were limited to the insane amount he already possessed, Alfred's face had new ways of surprising him ever more.

"Your eyes are unlike any I have ever seen before," Arthur commented quietly, almost to himself. He shook his head incredulously as he turned around to rummage in yet another bag, this one full of only eye makeup supplies.

Alfred smirked, crossing his legs. "Careful, tiger," the actor murmured very softly, his eyes hungrily ghosting over that firm behind that was presented to him once again. "Some might take that as the prologue to a romantic declaration…"

"Pardon?" Arthur asked, whirling back around, his thick eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. "What did you say?" The air rushing through the vents and the loud cacophony of his own jumbled thoughts had prevented the artist from hearing fully what the actor had uttered.

With lightning speed, Alfred's expression was back to a full and beaming grin as he shook his head, shrugging harmlessly.

"It was nothing," he assured, taking another sip of water. "Just rehearsing my lines."

"Oh," Arthur spoke, resuming his search for the correct supplies. Alfred was so convincing with that smile that the artist thought no more of the matter. He had to admire the kid for his hard work, actually, sitting there and running through his script even in this opportunity for relaxation. Maybe his climb to stardom and his good reputation was completely legitimate after all.

Arthur assessed his materials, picked out a few items, and then lined them all up on the side table. Alfred eyed them and raised a questioning eyebrow, though he said nothing. Those were some interesting colors, and some shades that Alfred had _never_ seen paired with his complexion before, and this movie set either, to be honest. No one would have pegged fuchsia to be an ideal highlight for a fast-paced and thrilling movie full of earthy tones and dark lighting. In fact, that very shade of purple right next to it was close to a color that Alfred's previous artist had specifically mentioned would _never_ work with his face or this movie's specific palette.

Alfred trusted Arthur, however, and remained quiet as the artist got down to the real business of it, where the perfunctory skills learned in school stopped and individual creativity and imagination began. Failure or not, it'd be interesting to see how this played out—and after all, it wasn't Alfred's job and reputation that was on the line.

"Just relax," Arthur intoned, picking up his first brush. "The less tense your skin is, the more natural I can make it look."

Alfred nodded and settled further into his seat, squirming around a bit until he found the optimal position in which he could just let loose. Then he simply sat back and enjoyed the show, his gaze lazily following Arthur's movements as the artist worked.

And Arthur delved right in.

He was going to try something new here, and it would either make him or break him before this new leg of his career had even begun. It was a risk, but greatness never came from the tame and the careful.

He worked quickly and quietly, unsure of how much time he had remaining. But Arthur never rushed, and he made sure that everything he laid down was as smooth and perfect as he could make it. Once he began, he was in the zone, and barely anything, not even Francis loudly bursting through the trailer door right then yodeling Christmas carols in Russian, could have distracted him from the task at hand.

It seemed like hours before Arthur finally finished, though it also seemed like mere seconds as well, to both artist and actor. Neither of them had noticed the passing time, too lost in their own separate worlds. Arthur had been thinking about what he could do with Alfred's face, and coincidentally, Alfred had been thinking about what he could do to Arthur's body.

Needless to say, Alfred had had the time of his life observing—and admiring—his possible new makeup artist.

The final contract had yet to be signed, and this was sort of like a trial run, but Alfred was already quite sure that this was what he wanted, even though he had yet to glance in the mirror even once since Arthur had really gotten into it.

But Arthur's hands had been so gentle, his moves so confident, his strokes so sure that there was barely a trace of doubt in Alfred's mind of a good result. How could this Englishman, with only the most flawless reputation to show for himself, have created anything but perfection?

"And… done," Arthur murmured, stepping back. He wiped his gloved fingers on the towel in his back pocket before straightening up to admire his handiwork. It had been such a pleasure to work with such supple skin that to be honest, the artist partially felt like he ought to have been upon his hands and knees, worshipping such perfection. But of course, that would have been ludicrous. Well, almost, though it somehow still felt oddly fitting in this situation.

"Good... good," Arthur murmured to himself, leaning to the side as he gently nudged Alfred's chin up to observe the effect angled lighting had upon his balance of colors. He was quite happy with it, actually, though Alfred's face had made it incredibly easy, and his beauty had been so inspirational that Arthur had barely even paused to think once in the whole time he had worked. This was refreshing.

"Can I see?" Alfred asked, his eyes lighting up as he smiled once again. He swung his model-length legs a bit, swaying back and forth in a boyish sort of excitement that was so utterly endearing.

"Of course," Arthur replied, and swung the chair around.

Alfred had to do a double take. And then a triple take to make sure. He certainly looked… different, no doubt. There was a new air to him, a great atmosphere of sophistication and intrigue, which was fitting for a movie about mysterious and nefarious plots. The actor had no idea how Arthur had been able to evoke that mood from mere blending of shades and colors, but it was incredible.

Alfred tried to grin, tried to appear boyish and young, like that farm boy archetype he was so well known for in his initial roles of acting, but even when he did so, all that came across was the look of a cunning man who was _trying _to deceive his audience by being innocent. He could look sweet and nice, but that face clearly told the story of a multidimensional character with deep-rooted secrets and things to hide.

No matter how much Alfred tried to go about it, putting his facial acting skills to the test, he could portray nothing but the character he was meant to portray in "Viewfinder," James Hatchfield—and there were so many new aspects to this character now, in expressions and versatility, that Alfred himself was actually learning about the guy as well.

"Man, you're good," Alfred exclaimed, his childlike wonder not at all feigned. He really did find such a transformation astounding, especially since it was still recognizably his face, and the colors placed on there were subtle, though they were shades that Alfred would never have deemed suitable himself under any circumstances.

"It's amazing, dude!" he said, swiveling the chair back around to face Arthur.

"I know," the Briton replied blandly, peeling off his gloves with a blasé expression. The artist tried to look nonchalant about it, but he did have the faintest blush upon his cheeks, and he seemed to radiate smugness and pride.

"I'm not popular for nothing," the artist added over his shoulder, walking over to the dustbin to dispose of the gloves. He then washed his hands one last time and checked his watch.

"It seems about time to head off for a lighting check under your new look. Ready?"

Alfred nodded and stood up, stretching. "Ready as ever!"

He took another careful swig of water then turned to look at himself one last time in the polished mirror. He couldn't resist. The face that stared back at him looked like that of a bonafide badass, and it was just so damn cool.

"Dude, I'm so excited."

"Really?" Arthur asked, trying to sound far less interested than he actually was. He grabbed his tumbler of iced tea as he too readied himself to leave.

"Yeah, I already feel... different. I can't explain it, but I can't wait to get some lines out looking like this." Alfred made his way to the door, and was surprised when Arthur followed.

"You're coming too?" — Not that he minded, of course. It was just that his other makeup artists usually remained behind, probably to clean up, relax, etc. Then again, Arthur was already proving that he was vastly different from "the rest," and Alfred wasn't complaining in the slightest.

"Of course I am," the makeup artist replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I need to make sure you don't make a fool of yourself and give me a bad reputation."

Alfred laughed brightly, immediately taking to Arthur's grumpy sense of humor. It was far more straightforward than most people were around him, and he found it to be a nice change of pace, rather than offensive. It was actually quite cute, to be honest, and it brightened up his day considerably.

"All right then," Alfred spoke, letting his twinkling eyes settle on Arthur for a moment, his expression indecipherable and overly complex. Maybe it was just a trick of the makeup. It did make Arthur shiver, however, and caused the artist to look away and clear his throat.

"Lead the way then, if you please," Arthur murmured, wondering why he suddenly felt like he was being grilled and assessed for all that he was worth.

"Sure, sure," Alfred replied with a harmless smile, before stepping down and out the door, with Arthur only a few steps behind.

* * *

The moment Alfred had stepped onto the set, almost everyone paused. It took quite a few moments before they managed to remember themselves and return to work, though a few straggling eyes did linger. Even the director himself took the time to set down his script and step out of his tent to take a closer look for himself.

Arthur moved back and to the side, preferring to not get much of the attention, despite his own pride in his work. He liked his name being well-known and occasionally getting the lime light, but he hated dealing with people himself. His ideal life was one in which he was stinking rich, but definitely not required to make public appearances and talk to others. Honestly, how actors like Alfred did it, Arthur had no idea. But he did respect them for it.

Excited chatter rippled through the workers as they continued setting up the scene, a few of them taking even more glances Alfred's way as he spoke to Tino, who was marveling at the new and improved look. No one could quite place what was different about it, and if asked, Arthur probably couldn't tell them. It was just gut instinct and a vague feeling as to what was correct. He couldn't say how things changed, but there was definitely a startling change to be assessed, and it was clearly one for the better.

Alfred F. Jones was now the walking portrayal of his character, right down to the very core, it seemed.

Every expression he pulled, every quirk of the eyebrow or movement of the mouth, only seemed to give James more depth, dimension and personality. Arthur could see that Alfred had fallen into his role a little, probably inspired by how he suddenly looked, which served to highlight Arthur's makeup all the more. This was a working relationship between actor and artist, after all, and Arthur's work was only as good as how Alfred portrayed it, just as Alfred's character was only as good as how Arthur interpreted it.

And luck seemed to be on their side, because they already seemed to already be on the same page about things.

With Alfred's new appearance, everyone seemed reenergized and doubly eager to kickstart the scene. Filming began even faster than anticipated. They didn't even take a rehearsal run-through after discussing the blocking, ready to jump right into the takes instead. Arthur was once again invited to watch with a now highly excited Tino Väinämöinen, though the artist refused this time around. He wanted to see it unfold with his own eyes, with no digital close-ups or panning to interfere. Standing outside, Arthur wanted nothing between him and Alfred's face as he observed, watching carefully as Alfred brought Arthur's skill to life.

And the moment the director called for action, the moment lines began to roll, the moment Alfred stepped in, felt his own power seep through him and meld into the set, felt the words slide off his tongue as if he really had been destined for this role all his life, felt his new self take charge—the world seemed to stop.

Alfred knew then and there that that British artist standing in the shade over to the side really was the _one_. The actor had never felt anything like this before, this complete and utter takeover by his character within the scene. He knew for sure what he had to do now.

He would stop at nothing until he made Arthur Kirkland his.

* * *

**Notes/Reference:**

The title of the fic comes from a film term meaning the budget that is reserved for paying the necessary people in a film, like the actors, producers, writers, etc. This part of the budget is fixed, where wages are generally the same no matter what happens, scenes getting cut, etc.

"Below the line" is the budget reserved for the less recognized people, to put it bluntly, which includes people like makeup artists. If something gets cut then the people involved in the below the line budget might also be in danger of shortened wages, etc. They have a looser contract.

In other words, the distinction can be summed up in the general idea that "above the line" consists of people necessary before filming can begin (incl. the principal cast), and "below the line" consists of people necessary once production actually begins.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

I'm sorry I didn't describe the actual makeup that much. I don't even wear makeup myself, so a lot of it had to be researched, and I got a bit lazy in that aspect, since this is my guilty pleasure relaxation fic.

I hope you guys are enjoying the building up of sexual tension~ It will get steamy sooner or later, I promise. I just like stringing things out and torturing people, hahaha. And in case you can't tell, I _really_ like Arthur's butt and Alfred's cheekbones and eyes. Like _dayum_. More on their legs later, too. More on _everything_ later. Jesus Christ, Alfred. You sexy bastard.

Happy reading!  
Galythia


	3. Exposition

**— 3. Exposition —**

* * *

It was a Friday, only one week into Arthur's new job. The sun was bearing down upon the set with a vengeance, relentlessly beating upon the backs of those working underneath. On any other set, morale would likely have been quite low, but Tino always managed to keep the spirits up with his rallying and well-placed encouragement, along with the very persuasive promise of good fortune. Of course, this didn't mean that the actor and artist duo weren't thankful for their reprieve from the blazing heat by the mercy of their air-conditioned trailer (which, incidentally, really was "theirs" now; rarely did anyone come in or out but either Arthur or Alfred).

In the one week that the makeup artist had been working for Alfred Jones so far, Arthur could already easily see why Francis had said that with this production, there would be doing one job and one job only. Arthur simply had no space to hold a position in any other movie, though the artist would have thought that such business for only one production would have been impossible before. However, Tino Väinämöinen seemed to have a goal in proving otherwise.

When Arthur wasn't actively doing the makeup, either on set or within the trailer, he was right by the director's side, watching and taking notes. Some other artists bypassed this offer, or were not even presented the opportunity at all, but Arthur took his job seriously. And as good as he was, it was a great difficulty keeping up with that high caliber every single day. Thus, he was in with the director as often as he could, living and breathing "Viewfinder" like everyone else on set seemed to be.

Tino had a very specific vision for what he wanted each scene to look like, and he often called together meetings to explain to all the artists just what he wanted them to create. Usually very sweet and mild mannered on the whole, Director Väinämöinen was, however, ruthless and adamant when it came to how an actor was portrayed and how he or she would fit into the scene. The director didn't know much when it came to the actual theory of makeup artistry, but he did know when something "looked right" or it didn't—and that was enough.

This being Arthur's first time working on a Väinämöinen production, he had to try extra hard to get used to the way things were run. It was different from most other movies of which he had been a part before, and not only because his specific acting charge was a large conundrum all unto himself—though that was indeed a large part of it.

Arthur had a hard time adjusting, and it was mostly thanks to Alfred that that was the case. The Briton considered himself very much a professional, meaning that he was quick to adapt and quick to learn the ropes of a new set of routines. Tino's way of doing things was definitely more involved than usual, but understandably so, and it had only taken Arthur about three days to get on top of that.

Alfred, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter.

It wasn't that there was anything wrong with Jones—but, on the contrary, it was just that. There didn't seem to be _anything_ wrong with Jones. He was all smiles and helping hands wherever he went. Arthur would turn the corner to find the actor lifting up some heavy equipment for a cameraman, or come back from a tea break to see the actor talking about superheroes to one of the overly-pimpled teenage caterer kids who was undoubtedly helping out for free just to get a chance to step foot on such a magnificent and legendary set.

Alfred floated around upon a bright cloud of his own. It was a ridiculous notion, but he seemed to have no idea that he was filthy rich, no concept of the fact that he himself was a man worth millions, no knowledge that so many would kill to be in his shoes. In fact, he sometimes seemed just like any other average twenty-year-old boy, only fresh out of his teenage years but still as innocent and naïve as ever. Not too old to be disillusioned by the world just yet. It was like Jones was fresh out of a movie himself.

In the face of all of this evidence to the contrary, it was incredibly difficult for Arthur to hang on to his former anti-Alfred Jones prejudices—but hang on he did.

After all, there _was_ the mysterious matter of the constant change in makeup artists over the years, not to mention a variety of other situations over the week into which Arthur's active imagination might have been reading too much. But still, never in the Briton's whole career had he ever encountered _anyone_ that could be so perfect and selfless. It was vaguely unnerving, and wholly unreal. In the show business, one did not get places because one was nice. One got places because one _knew_ just how good one could be. Perhaps even in an overestimation, but arrogance was better than humility—though only if you disguised it well behind pleasant smiles and well-placed pandering. It was an art, and one that Jones didn't seem to have a handle on whatsoever.

Or maybe he was just that good.

Whatever it was, Arthur was having a terrible time acclimating himself to the reality that this actor presented him. Even a week into his new job, Arthur stubbornly clung to his former opinions against the actor, despite all roads leading to the contrary. The artist actually considered himself wise in this effort, and he thought himself careful, which was better than stupid. Careful could save your arse, whereas stupid only got you benched.

Ah, the things he learned in his younger days.

As it were on this particular Friday afternoon, Alfred was preparing for his third drastic scene and lighting change of the day, calling for yet another clean upheaval and redo of his makeup and color composition. Considering the complexity of each and every shot in "Viewfinder"—a result of the highly creative and ingenious vision that stemmed from Tino Väinämöinen's brilliant (and expensive) mind—Arthur often found himself running around doing touch ups, subtle changes, recolorings, etc., tailing after Alfred everywhere the actor went. Makeup didn't do well under the blazing heat, especially with the large amount of close up shots.

However, this was one of the longer and more involved makeup sessions, during which the crew would film other scenes that didn't involve Alfred until the actor was prepared once again. Multitasking at its best. This actually gave artist and actor a nice time to talk as Arthur worked—something that they had begun to do every so often here and there, despite Arthur's best attempts to keep the chatter to a minimum. The Briton didn't like wasted air.

Nevertheless, talk he did. Because the questions had started innocently enough—which, incidentally, was just how Alfred had laid down his trap.

"Hey Arthur," Alfred started, his eyes moving slightly beneath their closed lids, causing for a very subtle change in shape that made Arthur _tsk_ in disapproval. He used a Q-tip to wipe away his little mistake just then—one which only a handful of people in the world might have noticed—and shifted slightly to the left to try again.

"Don't talk," the artist muttered, more tersely than he had meant to. In his defense, it _was_ the fourth time he had requested such in just this one session alone. But Alfred seemed more persistent than usual this time around.

"I've told you before," Arthur continued, his attention clearly on his work rather than his words, judging by his distracted tone, "talking changes the shape and elasticity of your skin. I need your muscles to be lax and neutral for things to come out well."

The actor chuckled, a rumble from his throat that was surprisingly deep, considering that boyish face and gentle personality. It had taken Arthur a few days, but the artist had gotten used to those occasional fluctuations in tone by now. It was more the personality to which he couldn't quite accustom himself just yet.

"Yeah, but I'm bored," Alfred whined, faking a pout. "I've been sitting here for god knows how long, and my butt hurts."

Arthur blushed at the mention of Alfred's pert behind, the picture of that perfect curvature covered by delectable designer jeans popping into his mind immediately. Apparently, he had been staring far more than he had thought he had over these past few days, considering how quickly he had managed to pull the image up just then. Arthur was very glad that Alfred's eyes were closed at that moment. He could have done without the mentioning of his furiously rouge cheeks.

The artist betrayed nothing of his expression with his words. He swallowed inaudibly, choosing to ignore that comment instead and fall back on silence with his work as if nothing had been said.

It was true that Alfred had welcomed the silence that had accompanied Arthur's methods at first, but as the week wore on, and as his fervent desire to get closer to his unique artist grew, that opinion quickly changed. Though Alfred liked having this chance to relax away from the constant hubbub of work… well, he had to admit that he liked Arthur Kirkland's lilting voice much more.

It wasn't often that Alfred was around English accents, especially in such an all-American production. And even when he was, Alfred realized now that no one's quite compared to the low timber—or should he say "timbre"—that was Arthur's. That voice, however gruff, was not unlike the roughness of pumice over skin. In other words, it might have grated on some people's nerves, but Alfred had had enough massages to know just how smooth his arms would feel after a nice treatment of that stuff.

It was a shame that the makeup artist was often silent, either too wrapped up in concentration or too lost in his thoughts. Well, Alfred was going to change that, plus he had a capture-and-keep plan to carry out. Two birds, one stone.

"Come on, talk to me, please?" Alfred beseeched, though it only earned another frustrated _tsk_ from Arthur, who once again had to remedy another mistake with a Q-tip doused in makeup remover.

"Fine," the artist gave in, deciding that, ironically, talking to Alfred could actually get him to shut up. Plus, it wasn't like Arthur hadn't been faced with chatty actors before. He simply had been under the impression that Alfred might have been different… although considering how energetic the kid usually was, Arthur now couldn't quite remember why he had ever arrived at that conclusion in the first place.

"Great," Alfred grinned, opening his eyes by accident to shoot a beaming grin straight at Arthur. That earned him a glare from the serious artist, who stepped back, his left hand on his hips as his right hand still held the small applicator.

"Try not to move?" Arthur requested, tight-lipped and a bit exasperated. It was too hot a day, and Francis was off cavorting who knows where, skipping any heavy, responsibility-ridden duties as usual. Not to mention it hadn't rained in ages, and call him crazy but Arthur liked rain. He also liked getting work done in a timely fashion. Uninterrupted.

"Okay, okay," Alfred conceded, settling back in and closing his eyes once again, temporarily satisfied with this little bit of progress so far. He couldn't help the smug grin that manifested upon his lips as he felt Arthur start back into work once again.

"So… favorite color?" Alfred ventured to ask. He was good enough at isolating lip movement that Arthur actually didn't notice when the actor had begun to speak, too lost in his work once again. Alfred had to reiterate once more, with an added chuckle, before Arthur even heard.

"Color?" the artist mused absentmindedly. It sounded like a "getting to know you on a first date" sort of question to be honest, but in this case, it actually had a bit of relevance. Thus, Arthur decided to give the matter some thought, though it didn't take long.

"Hm… MAC's 'Goldmine,'" the artist concluded, of course naturally speaking in cosmetics terms.

That surprised Alfred, in spite of himself. Truth be told, after seeing Alfred's bright eyes, most makeup artists—actually, _all_ makeup artists up until now—would automatically blurt out a shade of blue in reply to that question. Arthur had been the first to say something different, and that intrigued the actor even more than he had been already. (Though truth be told, the fact that Arthur _didn't_ say something along the lines of blue did irk the actor a little bit; Alfred was of the opinion that his eyes were quite special indeed.)

"Why?" the actor continued, shifting a bit. That answer did ruffle his feathers, after all.

"If I said something regarding Maybelline's 'Enchanted Forest' eyeshadow quad, would you understand?"

"Nope."

"Well, too bad," Arthur replied with a small shrug, "because that's the best you're going to get."

Alfred let out a small laugh, which heaved his shoulders a bit in a way that Arthur did not appreciate. But Alfred couldn't help himself. He had already decided really quickly on that first day that he liked Arthur's sense of humor very much, and that had only served to further Alfred's desire to make the artist his and his alone. By the end of this, Arthur would never want to work for anyone else ever again—or that was the plan, at least.

"Favorite place, then?" Alfred tried again.

"England."

The reply was automatic. Arthur often missed home, especially since his circle of friends living here in Hollywood consisted of only that idiotic frog and a huge amount of people whose names Arthur could barely remember without the aid of a business card. Of course, it wasn't like his terrible brothers were any better, but at least it was England. And England was home.

"A bit patriotic, aren't you?"

"You're the one with the American bomber jacket and a—poorly Photoshopped—picture of a bald eagle and the United States flag as your iPhone background," Arthur scoffed, as he finished with the right eye and moved over to start upon the left. "And how could I forget your signature ringtone of 'The Star Spangled Banner,' too?"

"Hahaha, you're right, you're right. I do have a soft spot for home, I guess," the actor admitted with a smile. Though home wasn't specifically Hollywood, technically, but that was another story for another time. It was one thing they had in common, and so far, it might have been the only thing they shared between them, aside from gender.

Though that did bring up an important question…

"Hey Arthur."

"Hmm?" The reply was soft, absentminded. Alfred really did admire Arthur's ability to focus in on his work—but then again, the actor was very much cut from the same cloth in that sense. They both possessed great skill in their respective professions, a skill mainly borne out of a desire to do only one thing and do it well. Hard work and all that.

All right; two things in common, then. Here's to hoping for the lucky three.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Arthur…" No point beating around the bush, though he wanted to give the impression of at least a little hesitation. It was only natural.

"… Are you gay?"

"What?" Arthur replied, actually stunned enough by the sudden question to stop working and move back. "Excuse me?"

Alfred opened his eyes, temporarily marveling at the fact that he couldn't tell the difference between his left and right eyes in level of makeup completion simply by way of weight and feel, which was once again a testament to just how skilled Arthur was at what he did. Makeup done by the Briton felt like a second skin to the actor, and when standing under that blazing Californian summer heat, dressed for a movie placed mainly in autumn, such lightness was a godsend.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Arthur sputtered.

"It doesn't," Alfred admitted. "I was just curious, that's all." That, and he had the vague idea that he already knew the answer. Just confirming to leave no stone unturned.

"I don't see any reason you ought to know," Arthur replied stiffly, his thick eyebrows furrowing in a way that most people would have pegged to be comical, but Alfred only found to be endearing. And, oddly enough, a turn on.

"Ah, I didn't mean to offend you," Alfred spoke, his voice all innocence and apologetic sincerity. "I'm sorry, Arthur. Forget it."

Alfred smiled sweetly up at the artist, his blue eyes clouding over ever so slightly in a way that Alfred knew would come across as vaguely ashamed and very earnest. At the age of twenty, he wasn't a three time Oscar nominee without good reason.

"No… You didn't offend me, Jones," Arthur muttered at long last, rolling back his shoulders and stretching a little from his bent-over position. (Arthur had never called Alfred by first name throughout the whole time they had known each other thus far, and he wasn't going to start now.) "It just… it took me by surprise, that's all."

Alfred held back his smirk. This was bordering upon laughably easy. He almost felt bad for it, actually. But considering the long-term goal, "almost" was as far as feelings went.

Arthur shook his head and pushed gently but firmly upon Alfred's shoulder in a not-so-subtle message for him to sit back and close his eyes once again. They were so close to finishing with this section, and Arthur didn't want the production to slow down because of _him_, of course. That was the epitome of unprofessionalism.

Alfred complied. He was about to add something else to his apology in order to push Arthur further into answering when the artist continued, apparently not yet finished with his reply.

"To answer, yes. I am," Arthur stated simply, as he gently brushed the top of Alfred's eyelid once again. "I guess it does no harm for you to know, and it's not like it's much of a surprise that I would be, considering my profession." Of course, Arthur knew that there were plenty of heterosexual male makeup artists in the world, but were any of them nearly as brilliant as he was?

Yeah, he didn't think so either. It took a certain fabulous flare to willingly involve oneself so deeply in such a rainbow of colors every single day.

Arthur wasn't exactly a homosexual, to be honest, but if it came down to it, and he really had to give an answer, it was his adjective of choice. But in reality, he considered himself to be generally asexual, just with a strong affinity towards men. Women's bodies didn't do for him remotely what men's bodies could. They did not elicit the same responses, bring about the same desires, etc. But the reason for the asexuality simply stood as the fact that Arthur had never fallen in love before. And to him, love was the main definer of sexuality, not lust. Thus, he still didn't have much to go by.

"Hey Arthur?" Alfred murmured, his minty breath brushing up against Arthur's hand in a way that made the artist shiver—and Alfred could feel that slight quaver, due to their proximity. It brought a smile to his face.

"Mm?"

"Thanks for telling me."

Alfred's tone and expression was dulcet beyond compare, his smile absolutely endearing, but the internal emotions that accompanied those words were anything but. Smugness and triumph coursed through the actor, as he knew he was yet one step closer to sealing his deal.

"Really," Alfred emphasized. "Thanks."

"You're… welcome, I guess," Arthur replied, frowning ever so slightly. He had a vague feeling that there was something he hadn't caught onto, something he had missed a second ago.

Whatever. That was probably just because no one had ever thanked him for revealing such a simple fact before. Probably.

Their conversation continued in little spurts here and there, but with nothing nearly as revealing and involved as that one question that had been enough to make Alfred's day. Of course, he wasn't one to be easily satisfied, but he was at least sated enough to last through the next few scenes before the next round came along.

Arthur watched as usual when Alfred stepped onto the set, the same inscrutable expression upon the artist's face as he observed. Perhaps part of what intrigued Alfred so much about the Briton was the fact that Arthur rarely betrayed his thoughts upon his countenance. A lot of people looked at Alfred with hate, pride, envy, adoration, etc. but at least they all had one thing in common—they looked at him with emotion. But Arthur was unreadable half the time, if not practically all the time.

Alfred took one glance at his artist hiding in the shadows before he closed his eyes to take his ritual final breather before a scene. When he opened them again, he was James Hatchfield, secret agent of the CIA and on the run from a powerful Austrian crime lord.

It was one of Alfred's first leading roles in a serious thriller, and many in the industry believed he had no place or use in any film other than in feel good movies. But Tino Väinämöinen believed otherwise, and apparently, so did Arthur Kirkland. Because when filming for that set of scenes finished, Alfred turned around to find that the artist had disappeared. There was only one reason why that would be the case, Alfred was pretty sure. It put a smile on his face.

The actor made his way back to the makeup trailer, even though most of the actors had headed over to the more luxurious rest areas for their break period. Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and stepped up. Looking in, Alfred came face to face with Arthur's back, which looked delightfully slim yet sturdy underneath the thin material of that simple green shirt. Alfred couldn't tell what Arthur was doing, but that wasn't important. What was important was the fact that Arthur was even in the trailer at all.

"You disappeared," Alfred commented with a smile.

"How astute," Arthur replied, his back still to the actor. He cleaned up a few more things in front of him, organizing his supplies with care, before finally turning around.

"What brings you here?" Arthur asked. One of his thick eyebrows was raised in mild surprise. "Shouldn't you be with the rest of your above-the-line crowd?"

"Perhaps," Alfred replied, bounding over and plopping himself into one of the cushy chairs. "But I'd much rather be here," he admitted, still smiling. "Plus, I wanted to know why you'd left."

In all their days of filming since Arthur had begun work on "Viewfinder," the artist had always stayed through the filming of every scene involving Alfred, opting to do any of his other work when the actor was off set. This was to "make sure Alfred didn't make a fool of himself," as Arthur had stated once before. After all, the artist's reputation was at stake too, even though Alfred was quite sure that his own acting skills had nothing to do with that quarter of the industry and wouldn't affect Arthur's rep in the slightest. But Alfred would let the artist believe what he wanted.

"Why I left?" Arthur mused. "Why wouldn't I? Acting isn't my realm of expertise. And I'm quite busy." Not too far from the truth.

"You know why I'm asking," Alfred said. "You've just never left during filming before."

The artist shrugged, picking up his mug and taking a slow sip of tea. He was somewhat on break as well.

"Had enough of my pretty face?" Alfred asked, his jesting tone light though his eyes were careful.

"A little arrogant, isn't it?" Arthur's eyebrow quirked up. Arrogance wasn't one of the traits that Alfred was known for, or one of the sides that he had ever displayed during the week thus far. Was this finally something...?

"I'm joking, Arthur." Alfred laughed. "There are plenty of people who are far better looking than me."

"Beg to differ," Arthur muttered before he could stop himself, thinking of all the times he had managed to see Alfred in just the perfect soft lighting to really bring out the shine of his natural beauty. God those moments were breathtaking, and Arthur had almost dropped his mug once or twice while he sat next to the director. He was in the habit of putting it down on the table now.

Arthur's cheeks tinged crimson when he realized what he had said, and he had to avert his eyes, cursing. It had been said softly enough that the actor could still hold out hope that Alfred hadn't heard.

The actor smiled, but let it go. There was a time and place for teasing, and that wasn't now. But it would be soon.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Err—nothing," Arthur said, rolling back his shoulders and taking another sip of tea. "Anyway, you seemed to have things under control," Arthur stated, his tone as mild as his expression. He had recovered quickly, a trick of the trade.

Alfred's smile widened. In other words, though it had taken a week—longer than with any other artist—Arthur had finally started to believe in Alfred's skill. The artist finally had faith that Alfred could pull off his own acting and movements well enough to really complement Arthur's work. Shine good light upon it, if you will. Well, the day was looking up.

"Although," Arthur added, "that's clearly thanks to me and my work."

The corner of the artist's lips perked up ever so slightly as he glanced Alfred's way, showing that he had partially intended it as merely a jest. However, this was the first joke that he had broke with Alfred, and the actor didn't take that lightly. Who knew that Arthur Kirkland's scowling face disguised such a nice smile, however slight?

"Of course, of course," the actor laughed. Although there was still quite a full schedule left to the day, he didn't mind for once. He felt energized and excited. And that's when an idea struck.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?" The artist had returned to his organizing, though it was more halfhearted than before. Alfred's dazzling presence permeated the room and was highly distracting, though Arthur would never admit that, dead or alive.

"This might sound crazy, but…" Alfred hesitated, for effect more than anything else. He had no problem with his plan. He thought it quite brilliant, actually. But he had to make Arthur believe in his goody-goody-two-shoes image for just a little longer before he could cinch the deal.

"Yes?" The Briton looked up.

"Well," Alfred began, "don't artists generally like to know their actors more in order to get down their habits and behaviors and stuff? Like how they move under the light, how they react to certain situations?"

Arthur frowned. He had never heard of that before. Actors were actors because they could change who they were for the camera. Thus, even if an artist knew the behaviors of his acting charge, it wouldn't—and shouldn't—affect who the actor was during filming. But now that Alfred mentioned it, it did sound like an interesting concept.

"Sure?" Arthur said. "I guess."

"Well I've been thinking… We see each other plenty during work, but what about sometime off set? Away from Sunflower Studios and all of… of this?" Alfred waved his hands around vaguely, gesturing to the door outside of which all the equipment was laid out and hundreds of people were gathered to work.

Arthur's noticeable eyebrows furrowed. "What are you suggesting? An off-work relationship?" His mind flashed back to that question about his sexuality earlier in the day. Could Alfred have been…? No. A guy who was that attractive and good with his fangirls could in no way have been gay. Arthur dismissed the idea without any further thought.

"Not exactly," Alfred laughed. "I just… well, I just have some time to relax on Sunday, and I figured for us to work together better, we should strive to have the most comfortable relationship that we can. So if you're free…"

Alfred trailed off, letting the question hang in the air. The silence spoke for itself.

Arthur paused his work and sipped some tea as he thought. The actor watched his artist carefully, trying to read that expression which was sadly as inscrutable as always.

At long last, Arthur detached himself from the table and nodded. "All right. Fine. I'm free Sunday as well, and I don't see how this would be anything but beneficial." It would do him good to learn more about Alfred's behaviors, Arthur figured. Plus, it would also be a chance to study that miraculous skin further under different types of lighting. Possibly the chance of a lifetime.

"Really?" Alfred perked up.

"Sure," Arthur nodded again. "Though not as a date, right?" He smiled a bit, though he was only half joking.

"Of course not," Alfred replied, having the decency to blush as if the mere idea of it was embarrassing. Little did Arthur know…

"Good." Arthur took another sip of his tea. "Good, good." The Briton opened is mouth to say something else, but Alfred took a quick glance at his watch and sprung back up.

"Ah! Late for the meeting with the director," Alfred explained, though he still had plenty of time. "Sorry!" He made his way for the door in a rush before turning back around last minute. "I guess I'll see you in a few for makeup, Arthur," Alfred spoke, smiling brightly before he practically skipped out the door.

It had all happened a bit too quickly for the artist to even fully register before Alfred had disappeared into the sunset, so to speak. But when he did manage to gather his wits again, all Arthur knew was that he was blushing furiously, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

Dear Lord, had he really just agreed to go spend time with this twenty-year-old actor off set on Sunday? Arthur hadn't even cleared it with Francis, though he was sure it'd be okay. The Frenchman probably had plans to go clubbing with Antonio anyway.

Arthur slowly got back to arranging the rest of his supplies, though his movements were lethargic and his thoughts distracted. He just couldn't get the image of that parting smile out of his head. It was so bright and so sweet, and dare Arthur admit that he was even quickly growing fond of it...?

Arthur sighed and shook his head. It seemed that he really did have some strong misconceptions about Alfred F. Jones coming into this job. Perhaps this could be his chance to remedy those ideas.

Well, time to start thinking about what to wear for your average day out with a world class actor.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

God, the egos that these two have could sufficiently fill up all the Ivy League schools combined. SHEESH. (But jk I really love the fact that they're both so confident in themselves and so set in their ways. It makes Arthur more fun to break, and Alfred more interesting to develop.)

As I mentioned before, this is not a fic to look for if you want thrilling twists and turns, rising action, extreme character complexity, deep plot, etc. This is just a warning, before you go further. I'm just writing this one for the fun of it, which means that I barely have planned ahead what I want to do (I have a few sexy scenes here and there, sort of like one-shots that belong to this AU, but I have no idea how they fit in just yet with the story as a whole).

With that said, I'm not looking to change this and make this into a more involved fic. ANSCR is enough for me in that stead, and handling two such complex works at once is way too much.

Bearing that in mind, I hope you enjoy the rest of this, though I understand if you stop reading because it's going to be far less "multidimensional and woah there, CAREFULLY PLANNED PLOT" and far more "goddamn why is Alfred so sexy and why is my OTP so hot together asktjlstjlkasjtks." Fair warning. ;D

Happy reading!  
Galythia

P.S. Gonna take a break from this fic until I manage to update ANSCR. So apologies for the short pause until I get something up for that.


	4. Mise en Scène

**— 4. Mise en Sc****è**ne —

* * *

Saturday morning found the Briton wide awake to greet the sun as always. Arthur was in the habit, ever since a very young age, of rising when others in the ever-partying movie industry was likely to go to bed. It had started from a desire to beat his brothers to the Christmas presents and the biggest pancakes at breakfast, but had soon developed into a full-blown habit that he could not get rid of—not that he tried. Arthur was in possession of a wide variety of hard habits, all of which he intended very much to keep.

After taking his small breakfast of a cup of tea and an English muffin (which he thought was a great bastardization of _true_ English breakfast fare), Arthur readied himself for a relaxing day of reading, baths and perhaps a little light jog around the area. However, as he passed by the mirror on his way upstairs, the sight of himself stopped Arthur in his tracks.

It wasn't that he looked _bad_, per se, or that he had a terrible sense of fashion. In Arthur's opinion, he had quite a great flare for style, actually, what with his knowledge of color and all. His dark, near-black trousers hugged his legs quite closely, matching well with his green pocket scarf and subtle cream-colored shirt. On most days, Arthur considered this to be very well dressed indeed. The only problem was that tomorrow would be no ordinary day, and standing next to Alfred Jones, Arthur was sure he'd look like some pitiful pauper in anything he currently owned.

The artist examined himself a bit more in front of the mirror before he began to feel foolish. Here he was, on a perfectly good morning, strutting back and forth contemplatively in front of a reflective surface as if he were some shallow actor far too obsessed with his image. He was being exactly who he had thought Alfred Jones might have been, before Arthur had had the privilege—err, misfortune; definitely misfortune—to meet the man himself.

With an exasperated sigh, the artist went up to his room and flung open his closet doors. As foolish as he felt now, caring about how he would look tomorrow, Arthur was sure he'd feel even more foolish tomorrow if he were complacent now. Arthur had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but he would _not_ allow himself to be outshone by _any_ actor, least of all one four years his junior.

The inside of the artist's closet was surprisingly organized. Most people of the creative flare tended to live very messy lives, in Arthur's opinion. He had seen their palettes, had had a chance to view their bags and examine their makeup kits. Most of them were messy to the point of distasteful, and Arthur had always walked away from those situations with a vague sense of smugness and superiority at his neater way of living. He took whatever victories that came his way, no matter how trivial; such was the pettiness of competition in Hollywood.

It was easy for Arthur to quickly rummage through his clothing to find that he really had nothing he deemed suitable for a... a "date" with Alfred, for lack of a better word. Arthur had casual clothing, like the sort that he was wearing now, and then he had business clothing, of the suit and tie variety. Then there was a section of his closet devoted specifically to award shows and the red carpet, though he rarely got a chance to use those. People didn't exactly ask for makeup artists to walk about and smile for the cameras, and though Arthur got asked more than most due to his stellar reputation, it was still a measly amount of only about once or twice a year.

Still, the Briton didn't mind that. He liked living his quiet life tucked away in a modest home. If anyone entered this house right now, they probably couldn't tell that he had a steady income that most would consider quite well-off. They'd probably think that he was living off of some clerk desk job with support from his family on the side. That is until they saw his makeup collection—at which point they'd honestly probably think him just the same, except now with an added color and beauty obsession that bordered upon the unhealthy.

But that stuff was all in a separate closet unto itself. Arthur spent most of his money on good, sturdy supplies, and it showed, now that he was examining the closet of things he _didn't_ spend so much cash on. Even his designer suits weren't top-of-the-line like his makeup was. Francis always chided him for that, and in return, Arthur would pour unclouded tea into the man's wine when he wasn't looking, and would smile smugly when Francis sipped it, sputtered, and then cursed for dear life at the cruel injustice Arthur had done to adulterate something so divinely pure.

After a few more minutes of rummaging, Arthur gave up the situation as a lost cause. It wasn't that he didn't own clothing for the whole gradient from casual to formal; it was just that whatever he owned just wasn't in the style of a twenty-four year old living in Hollywood. Arthur had a particular style, and he usually didn't care, but Alfred made him oddly self-conscious.

For the past week, Arthur had been dressing more up to the current fashion, mostly without even realizing it. It was probably due to his constant proximity to Alfred, who could waltz in and make Arthur feel stylishly inferior, despite the fact that the actor was just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, much like Arthur was wearing in return. Thus, Arthur would wear skinny jeans instead of the regular boot-cut trousers, or Converse shoes instead of whatever loafers he could find that matched the colors of his outfit that day. It made Arthur take more time in the morning, and the artist didn't even realize why until only yesterday evening, when he found it twice as hard to get out of his pants as usual.

Part of him wanted to simply push the matter off and go tomorrow in whatever he deemed as good casual clothing... but another part of him, a part which he vehemently denied even to himself, wanted to look good for Alfred.

Wait. No. That was the wrong way of saying it. He wanted to look _as good as _Alfred. It was definitely a competition, and not in any way a desire to appeal.

With a resigned glance at his watch, Arthur closed his closet doors and decided that perhaps it was time for a wardrobe update anyway, Alfred or not. Arthur did like his share of "young" fashion, especially jeans that fit well and shirts that had nice designs but were of light, loose material. His time for shopping was way overdue, and today was as good a day as any.

The artist changed into a more utilitarian outfit, fit for a day out trying and buying clothing. After changing a few times, he ended up with a pair of khaki shorts and a loose green shirt. They would be easy to change in and out of, since every shopping experience with Arthur was one in which he had to try on what felt like thousands of things before buying even one. That was why the artist rarely did clothes shopping in the first place, although come to think of it, makeup shopping wasn't really all that different either. It was just somehow more bearable.

The Briton took along a small messenger bag of his necessities, stepped out the door, and breathed in the deliciously fresh air of Los Angeles. Okay, who was he kidding? L.A.'s smog even made his eyes sting sometimes, and it was a far cry from the nice sea breeze he remembered from his vacations to the coast back home. But this was the price he had to pay for riches and success. It was either health or money, and if anyone even took a glance at the tabloids these days, they'd see that everyone in Hollywood already knew the answer to that silly and obvious question.

Arthur walked around to his garage and got into his nicely fuel-efficient hybrid (though he preferred not to drive if he could, but this darned city made timely efficiency _and_ lack of a vehicle nigh impossible, and with his busy schedule, Arthur barely had time to brush his teeth on certain days, let alone walk places).

Pulling out with well-practiced ease, it wasn't long before Arthur was on the wide boulevard and well on his way to one of the many shopping areas of L.A.

* * *

Parking was usually tricky on a sunny Saturday, but luckily the artist had arrived early, meaning that it was easy to find a parking spot suitable for his needs within the vast and vacant lot of The Grove, one of L.A.'s supposed "hottest" shopping areas. What Arthur _hadn't_ accounted for was the fact that stores would not have opened yet at—he checked his watch—eight in the morning, meaning that there were still at least two hours of waiting before anything productive could be done.

At least the farmer's market would open at nine, which would give him some fodder with which he could kill time (and perhaps a more involved breakfast as well). This was one of the curses that the young Kirkland had never gotten used to, living in Hollywood. Everything always opened so _late_, or at least late by his ill-adjusted English standards. But this was yet another habit that the artist wasn't too keen on breaking, no matter how troublesome it became at times.

Arthur got out of the car and decided that perhaps he would take a walk this morning after all. It just wouldn't be as peaceful and quiet as the area around which he lived, but he'd make do. The artist set off at a brisk pace down a random lane, counting on his decent sense of direction (and his iPhone maps, part of a device which Francis had insisted upon) to lead him back once it was time. Most of the shops were closed, as expected, and the staff of a few shops that were in the throes of setting up gave him odd looks for wandering about (at what Arthur considered a very reasonable time).

Finally, he came upon a little bakery at the end of a road, quaint, cute, and from what he could tell, Italian. He had no idea how such a small business could land a spot and thrive so close to The Grove, but hey, this was America. He had seen weirder things (and frankly, many of them he wished unseen).

Stepping in, Arthur quickly appraised the menu before he was greeted by a very eager Italian waiter, who was all smiles as he wiped his hands clean on a dish rag before walking over to take the artist's order. It was refreshing to see another face that was so lively at eight in the morning. Arthur was beginning to think that he was the only one who was awake at a reasonable hour at the start of a day.

The Briton ordered a simple muffin, saddened by the lack of tea in the menu. He would never stoop so low as to go for coffee, no matter how good it was claimed to be. Hollywood was already terrible enough to stomach sometimes, without the added bitterness of a horrendous invention of a drink to liven the deal.

He left with his extra breakfast treat, having provided a liberal piece of tip to start the day for that bakery. Arthur wasn't made of money like most of his cohorts seemed to be, but he respected and supported small businesses when he could. Not only did he think of himself as somewhat of a "small business" in his own way, but it also kept him grounded. One of the artist's greatest fears before coming to Hollywood in his younger years was that it would change him, and obviously change him for the worse. Small acts like these kept Arthur _real_.

For the next hour (well, fifty minutes, now), Arthur wandered around even more. He didn't mind the solitude and the lack of things to do. Despite what everyone who dealt with him might have thought, Arthur wasn't a busybody. He didn't need to be _doing_ things to feel productive. As he took his leisurely stroll, his mind was ablaze with colors and lights, its effects on the foliage, the reflection of the sky in little puddles on the ground made from a fountain nearby. He thrived on colors, especially the riveting relationship between them and lights.

Thus, although he seemed like some aimless soul wandering about the streets, looking for something to do, Arthur was completely placid and content. This turned out to be quite a relaxing morning after all, and before he knew it, the artist looked down at his watch to find that it was already nine thirty. He had been wandering for nearly an hour and a half.

Referencing his phone and taking in his surroundings ever so slowly, as if coming out of some dream to find that he really was in the middle of L.A. once again, Arthur slowly made his way back to where he had parked, passing by the market along the way. Already full, there wasn't much for him to do but peruse and politely decline when vendors tried to sweet talk him into a deal. Most of them were awestruck enough by a clearly English accent that they became too distracted to continue on with whatever it was that they were trying to impose upon his meager wallet.

Right when it struck ten, Arthur wound his way back into The Grove's main streets. Without even realizing it, the artist was already making his way to the easternmost part of the area, right where he knew MAC Cosmetics would be. It wasn't until he had arrived there that he realized what his feet had done. And though it was tempting to go in, Arthur was nothing if not goal-oriented. He had come here to buy some new clothing, so he had to do that first. If he let himself into MAC, he likely wouldn't ever let himself out for at least another three hours.

With an admirable resilience, Arthur wheeled upon his heels and began his walk back to... to where?

Shopping was a terrifying thing to the young artist. Well, specifically clothes shopping. He would have been happy finding all of his clothing at Target and Gap; they both carried enough simple and affordable t-shirts for a lifetime supply. But living in Hollywood, everyone was somehow expected to be trendy and at the height of fashion, even those that were "below the line." People were surprised whenever Arthur used to come in dressed in his regular clothing, which was considered "bland" and "overly distasteful." So over time, he had improved upon and developed his style to something more hip and striking, though it still didn't quite fit. But at least it was better.

That was now naturally a part of him (however natural a forced change can be). What _wasn't_ natural, however, was the experience of shopping itself.

It made no sense to the artist that a size eight could vary so much between stores in America, or that size four here really meant size twenty-something in the UK. Even shoes were their own little maniacal nightmare. At least cosmetics were all color and quality, which Arthur could tell just by look and feel. They never betrayed him by looking green, but then coming out purple once applied, unlike the terrible experience that was clothes shopping.

Nevertheless, it was a duty that Arthur felt compelled to carry out at least once a year, though most "trusted sources" said that it should have been done at least once a season. Arthur would do that for colors and cosmetics, but no way would he ever hold clothing with such high regard.

One would think that by now, Arthur would at least know what stores were suitable for him, or what size he held in each establishment. But honestly, he never had a great mind for remembering the origin of various pieces within his wardrobe, and the experience of buying them had probably been so traumatic that he had blocked it out of his brain almost completely.

Thus, at ten in the morning, right in the middle of The Grove, the artist was completely lost as to where to go.

There was Airpostal or something like that, which sold clothing...? Or did they sell home goods? Something about Jay's Crew and a North Strum. Gap, for sure, but that wasn't the type of fare that Arthur was looking for.

In fact, what was he even looking for?

Something hip, something trendy. The problem was, Arthur didn't even know what was good with the young people these days. It seemed like styles changed faster than Alfred changed makeup artists, and Arthur was often so bent on keeping up with each season's "it" colors that the rest sort of fell out of his brain.

The artist contemplated calling Francis for help, but decided against it almost immediately. He'd never live it down if he did, and it would open the doorway to future situations in which Francis would advise him on fashion even when Arthur didn't want it. There was no "one time only" with Francis, and Arthur wasn't sure he'd survive the hell of being dragged around to fashion shows and whatnot just for this one instance of shopping help.

All of this wouldn't have been so hard, had it not been that Arthur was trying to compete (or at least remotely match) _Alfred F. Jones_. The boy was not only an acclaimed actor and a prodigy in his field, much like Arthur, but he was also a model as well, when the movies weren't keeping him busy—much _unlike_ Arthur. People paid millions to get Alfred's beauteous endorsement sometimes, and though many within the industry valued Arthur's skill with faces, they'd probably pay him equally to get his own face _off_ the screen.

Thus, it was with a mild but building panic that the artist began to seriously wander the streets of The Grove. He popped into a few shops here and there that caught his eye, only to remember that what caught his eye was "not good enough." It was the equivalent of showing up at the Emmy's with something from Marshall's; it simply wasn't _done_ in the fashion industry, though for the life of him, Arthur couldn't see why. For a land of freedom, America sure made it insanely difficult to be personally expressive.

Arthur ended up trying a few things at Abercrombie & Fitch, where he was assaulted by the overly strong smell of terrible cologne and disoriented by the sudden lack of lighting. How did they expect anyone to buy anything when people couldn't even see the price tag? Perhaps that was their tactic, those sly dogs. It didn't gain them any of Arthur's respect, for sure, especially when he left forty minutes later empty-handed with a terrible headache and an overly strong sense of relief that the ordeal was over.

With an exasperated sigh—he seemed to be doing that a lot lately—Arthur plopped himself down upon a bench, head in hands. He needed to get to a drug store to buy some ibuprofen, but lord knows how hard it would be to find _those_ anywhere around here. Everyone in Hollywood seemed to be attracted to dark places with loud music and large crowds, not haunted by their existence like Arthur was.

The artist checked his watch once again, and groaned when he saw that it was only eleven thirty. He wasn't even hungry yet, which left him no personal excuse to do anything else but shop further. He still didn't know what he was looking for, let alone where he would go to find it. But Arthur was never one for failure, and he was never one to settle.

Thus, he only gave himself a few minutes upon that bench before standing up once again, renewed purpose and determination pumping through his veins. At his usual brisk pace, the artist doggedly set off for what felt like the billionth time that morning to find something he had no idea he was looking for.

* * *

Alfred was taking a relaxing Saturday morning himself, since tomorrow would be game day, and he needed time to prepare (not to mention pamper himself for a job well done having even gotten this far already). This meant that he woke up later than usual (and usually, he was already one of those guilty of what Arthur considered to be taking a ridiculously late start to the day). The actor lounged in his super comfortable bed for a while, taking in his daily digest of information from his online news aggregate.

Most people considered Alfred to be simple, a man who just perused through the gossiping tabloids and celebrity magazines. No one would have likely expected him to read bits from the Washington Post or the New York Times each morning, or learn about whatever was happening overseas, as he was in the habit of doing. Perhaps it was his young age, or the fact that most people saw him on screen when he was usually shirtless. Whatever it was, Alfred used to resent it, but he had grown accustomed to it by now. The media was always askew from reality. It was just how things worked.

At ten o'clock, Alfred got up and out of bed and padded over to his spacious bathroom, which was in a separate location from his _other_ bathroom that held just his massive bathtub, for evening relaxation purposes only. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and carried out a few other basic routines. Where Arthur would have taken about twenty to thirty minutes, Alfred took nearly an hour and a half. If he didn't, then he would never hear the end of it from his beautician, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who could talk his ear off about the dangers of letting one's skin get "un-awesome."

Alfred skipped breakfast, deciding that he was going to take lunch outside somewhere instead. His cook knew better than to argue with the strong-minded actor, though Alfred knew that she disapproved nevertheless.

Had he taken it, breakfast would have been the standard fare of gourmet cereal and milk, which Alfred requested every Saturday morning. The cereal was of the variety that was sold only by the gram, and the milk, which Alfred was never even allowed to pour by himself, was imported directly from Europe and was tasted every morning for quality assurance.

When he had first begun his climb to fame, Alfred had felt awkward whenever anyone had pampered him and treated him so lavishly. But he had come a long way since then, and had quickly forgotten the hardships of his upbringing, making the rest of this now all seem like secondhand nature. Alfred was now used to it—_expected _it, though he disguised it well behind gracious smiles and warm thanks. Gratefulness and humility went a long way in the industry, even though everyone knew it was highly contrived. At least, for the sake of the cameras, they pretended it wasn't.

Returning to his room, Alfred found that his bed was already made, his bedside flowers newly changed, and his clothes laid out upon the display rack of his main walk-in closet, one of many he possessed. Elizaveta, his fashion consultant, was always quick to decide what he should wear each day, based on the micro-trends and minor fluctuations in style which she monitored with a ferocity unparalleled. She would then text it to Alfred's head housekeeper, Toris, who would prepare for it to be worn and lay it out—usually all before Alfred even got up in the morning.

Of course, Alfred could have chosen to ignore the suggestions and picked his own items to wear, as he did every so often, but he found it easier to fall into the lull of being cared for. Heck, he didn't even have to tie his own shoelaces on most days, since they had to be symmetrical and just right otherwise Elizaveta would chide him for it. Alfred was pretty sure that the style with which he tied his shoes didn't matter nearly as much as she claimed, but he let her do what she did anyway. It was just easier that way.

The problem was, this led life to be quite boring. Alfred was floating day to day, and he knew that he was spoiled for thinking that his rich and superstar existence was mundane, but he couldn't help it. It _was_ boring. Everyday consisted of the same mindless routine, the appearances, the smiling, the posing for pictures and signing autographs for adoring fans who were in love with everything about Alfred but Alfred himself.

That was why Arthur Kirkland was such an interesting addition to the game, and why Alfred had taken to him almost immediately. Not only was he a fine piece of ass, but he was also different—and Alfred thrived on different.

As of now, the actor had no idea just how much of an interest Arthur could be, but he was completely ready to find out. Tomorrow would be a fantastic day, no matter how it ended up, and there was still much to be done in the meantime.

With the artist on his mind, Alfred dressed with extra fervor, pulled out of his mundane morning funk. He tightened his belt and slipped on his shoes, noticing vaguely in his mind somewhere that Elizaveta seemed to be in a subtle Banana Republic mood this morning. She had theme days sometimes, and Alfred usually didn't care enough to notice what they were. He just wore whatever she told him to wear, much like he put on his face whatever Gilbert told him to put. Sometimes life could be quite boring indeed.

With nothing on his plate for the day, save a possible yet-to-be-confirmed interview that evening on some radio show and a private club party later in the night, Alfred waltzed out the door. He texted Kiku, his manager, with his vague plans for the day, which included some shopping, some eating, and perhaps a trip to a spa. If the man needed Alfred, he'd call.

The actor slipped into the car, told his driver where he wished to go, and they were on their way to none other than The Grove.

* * *

When Arthur found Topshop Topman, he almost ran in, recognizing a British company and hoping that it would reek of home. However, that turned out to be too much to hope for in such a full-blown American area like the lavish folds of Los Angeles. Arthur had been hoping for some Disney Epcot experience, where the clerks would be hired from overseas so that they had the proper accent to give the all-out feel of shopping right in that country. But the salespeople here were as annoyingly American and as unhelpful as ever, and Arthur was left to wander aimlessly through racks once again.

Topman didn't have a bad selection exactly. It was just that Arthur didn't understand why anyone would want to wear a badly fitted polo that was half yellow, half blue, along with some reddish chinos and brown loafers, as one model seemed to be suggesting. That just seemed like a disastrous color combination that was in danger of making people bleed to death from their eyes. It was enough to push Arthur back out onto the streets, still shuddering at the vision.

There was a small commotion down to the right on First Street when Arthur stepped back out of the doors. It was a few stores down, and from his vantage point, he couldn't tell exactly what was going on. "Extra" was probably filming again, he thought, and turned down a side road to avoid the crowd.

Well, he _would_ have done that, had he not heard, mid-turn, the name of none other than Alfred Jones, twittering through the excited crowd.

_It's probably nothing_, Arthur tried to convince himself. Some girls were probably fawning over some model spread at a storefront that showcased the actor, and their squeals probably drew a crowd—because that was how crowd psychology worked. _I should probably just go around_, Arthur tried again, though his feet didn't budge. After all, the thought of a model spread of Alfred Jones _was_ intriguing...

_All right_, Arthur decided, _but only for research purposes_. Then he wheeled around and began to walk tentatively in that direction. _Research purposes_, he repeated, unable to help the small blush upon his cheeks at the thought of seeing an image of Alfred blown up and half-naked.

Arthur had avoided looking Alfred up after he was hired because of this exact reason. He could do that perfectly well with other actors, and he often did, when he was assigned to them. But with Alfred, Arthur knew what he would find if he Googled that name, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, or wouldn't allow himself to fathom, he couldn't deal with any of it—and neither could his betraying idiot of a body.

_Research purposes_, Arthur repeated, almost like a mantra, once with every step. He still couldn't see over the heads of the crowd, even though he was only one store away at this point. There was quite a large gathering, even for some sensational poster. It made Arthur nervous, especially as he saw the flash of a camera in broad daylight.

_It couldn't be—_

It was.

Surrounded by adoring fans, Alfred Jones was standing in front of the window of Banana Republic, causing quite the traffic jam. But tourists to Hollywood mostly came for superstar sightseeing anyway, so no one seemed to mind. Even the employees of the store were glancing up every so often at the commotion outside, wishing they could go out there and trying to ignore the situation because, in the end, they couldn't.

He was signing autographs, clearly not intending to stay long and seeming to be in a rush. However, with a reputation of being especially nice and accommodating to his fanbase, Alfred couldn't very well just leave those poor girls there. And who was to say that he didn't enjoy the limelight _just a little _here and there?

Alfred had yet to notice Arthur, and for that, the artist was infinitely glad. Part of him wanted to run away before such a chance for recognition came to pass, but another part of him stayed rooted to the spot, unable to turn away from the sight before him. He was transfixed, utterly riveted by the sight of Alfred's face. There was something in that smile... something in the crinkling of those eyes as Alfred laughed...

Something terribly _wrong_.

Whoever had done Alfred's makeup that morning had done an atrocious job. Or even worse, Alfred was probably wearing no makeup. And although he could pass easily in such a state when intense and carefully blocked lighting was upon his features, natural day lighting was a different creature entirely. It was probably the worst, next to low-level institutional lighting, such as that found in "fine dining establishments" like McDonald's.

Of all the people that Arthur had ever met, Alfred certainly was the one who looked the best under natural lighting. That was undeniable. But no one on this world was immune to Arthur Kirkland's Laws of Color, part of which stated that _no one_ looked their best under the blazing L.A. sun in June without at least a little help.

Of course, probably no one else would notice the glaring errors aside from Arthur anyway. And if there were any professional photographers around, Photoshop would do for them almost what Arthur could do in person. Thus, this was more a matter of personal pride for Arthur, since it clearly didn't matter for anyone else present, all of whom seemed to think that Alfred's was God's gift to mankind. But all Alfred needed was a touch up upon his cheeks, just so that the shadows wouldn't be so stark. It was a quick and easy fix...

The problem was, there was no way Arthur was going to get in there without being noticed. Could he do it? Could he walk away from this situation and forgive himself that he had let his acting charge go just one moment in public without looking superb when Arthur could have helped it? Argh.

The answer was simple. No, he could not.

The artist knew he would never forgive himself for this sudden decision either, but he rummaged around in his messenger bag anyway. He always carried a handy supply of the very basics of makeup artistry, just in case he ever needed it. Such instances like this were rare, but he knew that he'd have chided himself for the rest of eternity had he not been prepared to deal with such cases simply due to a lack of supplies.

Armed and ready, Arthur calculated from a distance just what changes had to be made. Alfred was still lost in his little fangirl-mobbed world, meaning that his attentions were thankfully occupied, leaving Arthur time to think out his moves. He didn't know what the actor would do if he noticed his makeup artist wandering the streets, and some of Arthur's old actors had recognized him before and done nothing. However, this was Alfred Jones he was talking about, the boy who had a surprise for Arthur at every turn. The kid wasn't to be trusted.

With a readying breath, Arthur, ever thin and agile, wound his way into and around the crowd, trailing commotion behind him at the fact that someone had the audacity to cut the line—whatever a line this mob seemed to be. Alfred looked up from his latest autograph signing of a stunning picture of his own face, not sure what the sudden shouting was all about. He readied a smile to deal with whatever troublemaker it was, prepared to charm his way to peace, when his eyes came face to face with the bright verdant ones that he knew so well.

Alfred froze.

The actor wasn't sure what he was feeling right now. Surprise? Curiosity? Horror at how Arthur was dressed? Awe at how he seemed to pull off those colors anyway? Lust at how whatever piece of clothing Arthur was wearing didn't even seem to matter, and that Alfred just wanted it _off_?

Whatever it was, the actor didn't snap out of it until he felt Arthur's hand upon his wrist and some force pulling him away from his adoring crowd and into Banana Republic itself. Before most of the fans could even react, the doors had already closed behind Alfred, and the salespeople were busy trying not to let a mobbing surge of people into their establishment all at once.

"Arthur, what are you—"

"Shhh," Arthur muttered, his eyes filled with determination as he pulled on his spare pair of gloves. Even in a situation such as this, he never forgot his self-imposed rules.

Alfred opened his mouth to ask again, a little miffed and partially offended at being cut off so brusquely. But before he could say anything, Arthur had already brandished a powder brush and was standing on his toes to reach those perfectly sculpted cheeks. He kept glancing nervously at the double doors at the front, where curious onlookers peered in to see what Alfred was up to with this mysterious person. Some of them remembered Arthur to be a small boy, while others thought that he was a girl, or perhaps some sexy woman. And the glare from the brightness outside, coupled with the fact that Arthur was hiding them in a far corner, made it almost impossible for anyone to verify their conjectures.

Was that Alfred's new girlfriend? Did Alfred even have a girlfriend? Some people swore that they had even seen Arthur's face before on the cover of some women's magazine. Perhaps that was a famous actress, or some foreign music star. Whoever he was thought to be, Arthur was the unknowing subject of much jealousy and curiosity outside.

"Arthur, what—" Alfred tried again, but was promptly cut off in the same manner as before.

"I told you not to talk whenever I do your makeup, remember?" Arthur chided, his voice once again devoid of concentration as most of his attention was fixed upon his work. "It causes unnecessary tensing."

The actor glanced about him, a little at a loss. It was clear that Arthur was doing his makeup; that needed no explanation. What did need some, however, was the fact that it was a Saturday afternoon, and they were not about to go on set for anything. Alfred seldom wore much makeup in his everyday life, simply because Gilbert was such a good beautician that makeup was seldom needed.

Nevertheless, Arthur had somehow found him (had Alfred been stalked? Wouldn't that just be delicious, the actor thought), and was now furiously applying little things here and there with speed Alfred had seldom ever seen. That wasn't to say it was a sloppy job; Arthur just seemed nervous and fidgety, and with the way he kept glancing worriedly at the doors, Alfred could understand why.

Slowly, a plan began to develop in the actor's mind...

It wasn't long before Arthur finally finished putting on the final touches, though the awkwardly pale orange lighting in Banana Republic did little to help the artist judge exactly how well his work would carry over once they stepped back out. And that was yet another problem: going back outside.

The makeup job had all been applied in the matter of maybe one or two minutes, although it had seemed like an eternity to Arthur's whirring mind. That meant that the crowd was still mostly there outside, whispering among themselves and craning their heads to look in. Most of the staff of Banana Republic, along with the shoppers inside, were trying their best to ignore the odd sight presented to them of Alfred Jones and some other stranger in a corner together, with the other person apparently standing on his or her tiptoes in an effort to reach Alfred's face. It was quite a suggestive sight, especially since Arthur was the one against the wall, with Alfred covering him from the rest of the shop, so no one could quite tell what was going on. Thankfully, no one was brave enough to come forth and voice their suspicions, and most eyes either averted or widened in great surprise when Arthur was finally finished and the two stepped apart from each other.

Everyone could see now that their stranger in question was clearly _male_, and Arthur could tell exactly what that meant in their stupefied gazes. So could Alfred, and he was more amused by it than anything else. Perhaps it was time he spread the rumor that he had a male lover, though he knew how well _that_ would go over with Kiku, considering the man's ardent efforts to grow Alfred's adoring fanbase. Well, who was to say that women didn't find gay male relationships just as much of a turn on as men seemed to find lesbian relationships?

But alas, that was a discussion for another time. They still had to get out of Banana Republic, and a sudden and public declaration of homosexuality was not within Alfred's plans for the afternoon—well, at least not the public part. The rest was still yet to be seen.

The actor could see the small panic in Arthur's eyes, now that his senses were returning to him after his job was done. With nothing left to focus on, Arthur was left to face the reality of exactly what he had just done. It took him a bit to understand why some people were staring so openly, and when he did, he almost wanted to bolt out of there, return home, and never come back. But that was damned unprofessional, and he couldn't allow that (not to mention it'd probably just spread even more rumors).

Arthur tried to straighten himself out, occupying his attention with fixing his shoulder bag and putting his materials away. His cheeks were flushed, which did nothing to help his cause. He cleared his throat awkwardly and probably would have said something stupid to Alfred, had the actor not looked down at Arthur and shot him the most dazzlingly reassuring smile the artist had seen in a long while (now aided to look extra beautiful by his recent makeup job).

The grin seemed to wash away a lot of Arthur's unprofessional nervousness, replacing it with an odd sense of nirvana and peace. Arthur was transfixed once again, and this time for a good reason. His thoughts seemed to escape him, just like the air within him seemed to escape right out of his very lungs. And all that was left behind was Alfred, perfect and shining as always.

Thus, the artist barely even noticed when he was led outside, past the gawking customers who were trying their very best not to do just that. He didn't register when Alfred began to address the crowd, or feel it when Alfred put his arm around Arthur's shoulder and gave it a squeeze of camaraderie. Only when Arthur heard his own name did he finally snap out of it—and everything came rushing back.

Everyone's eyes were on him, and the sun suddenly felt hotter than he had remembered it to be. Had Arthur known that he'd be addressing a crowd that day, he probably would have worn something a bit more presentable, rather than just his regular, off-work attire. And this was the worst situation, actually, considering the irony of the fact that he had tried to go shopping today to avoid humiliation tomorrow as he went on his whatever-it-was with Alfred, only to end up feeling terrible now, as he had _under dressed_ today for ease and comfort.

So much for not feeling foolish.

"... A long time friend," Arthur heard Alfred saying, as sound gradually returned to his ears like he was on a train exiting a tunnel. "He's from 'across the pond' as they say." With a small, fond glance at Arthur, Alfred added the clincher to the deal, "Arthur is also my personal assistant for the time being."

"Wha—" the Briton started, but felt a strong squeeze on his shoulder signalling him to shut up. It was more forceful than he was used to, coming from Alfred. But that notion quickly struck him as odd, considering they had only known each other for a week; how could Arthur propose to know anything about what was expected and what wasn't from this actor?

At the news, Arthur received very many of the stares, all turning to him. Some of them were surprised, while others were jealous. Some seemed almost protectively hostile, as if Alfred was their own child and they were sizing Arthur up, making sure that Arthur was fit for the job. God, just how crazy _were_ these fans?

Many people pulled out their phones as well. Some took pictures, others were furiously typing away. Some even called people, though Arthur couldn't figure out why this was all that exciting of a story—especially when it was a _lie, _of all things. But it got people excited anyway, and the professional paparazzi were here too, flashing away. Arthur had never been so close to cameras before, or at least on this side of the lens. It was a bit blinding, actually, and disorienting, considering the stream of questions that Alfred was immediately pelted with.

The actor declined them politely and wished to make no further comment, signalling that he really must be on his way. He explained that he had been waiting for Arthur and that this had been their meeting point. So now that they had found each other, Alfred and Arthur really had to go and continue on with their day. Arthur had no notion of any plan of the sort, but he followed nevertheless when Alfred started edging off to the left, right back toward Topshop Topman.

"You have a car?" Alfred asked, as he broke into a brisk jog alongside Arthur, glancing backward to assess their situation. They were both still pursued by some dogged paparazzi who were determined to get the first scoop on this juicy bit of celebrity news.

"Yeah, in the lot. Follow me," Arthur muttered, wondering why the hell he was even putting up with this. But now that he was in the thick of it all, he couldn't escape unnoticed like any other face in the crowd. And by tomorrow, his picture was likely to be all over the magazines as the latest look into "celebrity heartthrob" Alfred Jones's life, atrocious khaki shorts and all. Arthur could see it already; he'd never have a day's peace again.

But Arthur would ask questions later. For now, he would run.

* * *

Arthur slammed the door behind him and immediately started up the engine, ignoring the actor in the passenger seat for now. Most of the paparazzi had dissipated, but a few _really _determined ones still refused to be shaken off. Arthur had to get out of here first, settle his nerves, and then get into the long tirade that he was carefully planning out for Alfred Jones, the young runt.

The artist pulled out of his parking space with speed but finesse. He trusted that whatever cameramen there were left would be smart enough to get out of his way. And soon enough, he was on the road once again, catching his breath and leaving those darned reporters behind.

There was some silence in the car as they drove down the boulevard, heading west to an unknown destination. Alfred was silent as well, though Arthur noticed that Alfred kept glancing at him and the steering wheel every so often as if he had something to say, but common politeness dictated that he ought not to.

"What?" the Briton snapped at last, having already lost his patience long ago and was now running on just his fast-draining adrenaline. The silence was wearing too thin, and yet it was almost unbearably choking.

"... Nothing," Alfred murmured, leaning his face upon his hand, his fingers grazing over his lips thoughtfully as his elbow rested upon the crook of the window and the door frame. The actor kept his eyes upon the artist, betraying nothing further. Arthur could hear the amusement in the actor's voice, however, and it grated on his nerves even more.

"_What?_" Arthur repeated, practically fuming, though he wasn't sure why. Was it that Alfred had told such a blatant lie to the press, which were already prone to blowing things out of proportion as it was? Was it that Alfred had acted all chummy with him in front of everyone, when in reality, they barely knew each other? (And why had that closely made Arthur so uncomfortable?) Was it that tomorrow, Arthur would be all over the papers, and all he was dreading was his _atrocious_ outfit? It wasn't _bad_, but next to Alfred, Arthur was practically dressed in rags. He wasn't one to care too much about image, but this was his personal competition to not be outshone by some rapscallion of a star (not to mention Francis would never let him live it down).

Alfred was silent for some time longer, his eyes carefully observing Arthur in a way that the artist wouldn't have been able to read, had he looked over. But thankfully, his eyes were focused carefully upon the road, meaning that Alfred looked the same to Arthur as he always did in the artist's mind. Smiling, bright, and not at all conniving.

"You own a hybrid," Alfred said at last, with a smile upon his features as if that were the most amusing fact in the world. He laughed at little, which made Arthur want to pull over.

"Problem?" the artist asked, taking a sharp left turn down a random road. He wasn't sure where he was going, but the faster he could find some place to stop, the faster he could let Alfred out of the car and leave the actor behind.

"No," Alfred shrugged. "I just think it's cute."

Arthur wasn't sure he heard that correctly. Cute? _Him_? It was almost condescending, the way he heard it, even if Alfred hadn't intended it to be that way. Arthur got angrier at the actor for being so patronizing, especially when the boy was _four years his junior_. Why Arthur was so fixated upon the age gap, he had no idea, but it annoyed him anyway. It was probably a coverup for something larger and deeper that Freud could analyze all he wanted from the grave, but for now, all Arthur knew was that he was angry and that Alfred was the only one at which this anger could possibly be directed.

"_Cute?_" Arthur repeated, pulling into a large parking lot in front of a random Starbucks. He put the car in park and whirled around to face Alfred, who seemed stunned at the sudden explosion from the usual calm and very put-together artist. He had sensed that the artist was grumpy, but this was a bit much, wasn't it?

"Did you just call me _cute?_" Arthur continued. "Pardon me, but considering I have _far_ more experience than you, and that I've been in the industry _far _longer than you, don't you _dare_ patronize me." Arthur undid his seat belt and crossed his arms, putting his keys in the compartment in front of the shift stick. "At least I have my job because I am actually _good_ at something and I earned it, rather than it being the product of just another pretty face with zero actual talent."

Arthur paused.

The moment it was out of his mouth, the artist regretted it immediately. He didn't mean it. He really didn't mean it. He was still angry, but now he was also confused. Was he really angry _at_ Alfred, or was he just angry that he had been so easily taken off guard and had shown a great deal of unprofessionalism in a moment of stress back there? Was it anger or just... disappointment and frustration in himself?

Arthur opened his mouth to apologize, but was cut off by a dismissive wave of Alfred's hand as the actor shrugged and undid his seat belt as well. Alfred shifted a bit in his seat and ran a hand through his hair in a way that he knew was eye-catching. And judging from the way Arthur's eyes widened a little, Alfred knew that it had had the desired effect.

"... You're right," Alfred murmured, surprised at Arthur's sudden outburst but not showing it whatsoever. The artist was full of surprises, but that was what made him interesting. And this gave Alfred a chance to actually _use_ his brain, calculating each and every action as he went along. He had to show just enough sincerity and sensitivity for this to work.

"I didn't mean to patronize you, honest," Alfred continued. "I really just thought that... that it was nice you cared so much for the environment." Alfred smiled, beaming his genuine grin right in Arthur's face, his eyes twinkling with undue merriment. "It's a nice change from the selfish bastards around here with their gold Hummers, you know?"

Alfred began to laugh. It was a bright sound that reverberated throughout the car, and it seemed to make the whole landscape brighter—something which made Arthur even more confused. He could have sworn he was angry just a second ago, but where had that feeling gone all of a sudden? Why did he want to smile now _with _Alfred, even though he was sure should have been frustrated _at_ Alfred instead? And of course, that confusion only made him _more_ frustrated.

Shaking his head, Arthur tried a second time, clearing his mind and focusing back on something that he was sure he felt frustrated about, and dismissing that oddly bubbly feeling in his stomach for now. Whatever witchcraft Alfred was dealing, Arthur was having none of it.

"What was that back there?" the artist snapped, gesturing behind him at the vague direction of The Grove. Yes, it was a very smooth change of the subject. For sure.

"Personal assistant?" Arthur raved, not missing a beat. "I'm no one's assistant, thank you very much. I am my own man, and you'd do well to remember that, Jones. I am a very popular artist, and I _could_ drop the deal with you if I wanted to. It's not even signed for sure yet, so you're treading on eggshells at the moment. I don't appreciate _your_ efforts to undermine whatever efforts _I_ am taking to—"

"Woah, woah, woah." Alfred held his hands up soothingly, backing up a bit so that he was pressed against the window. Arthur sure had quite the temper, huh. The actor almost wanted to lick his lips, his eyes slowly grazing down that worked up, flushed expression. Imagine that feisty temper _in bed_... But that was a matter for another time, however sad that fact was. For now, Alfred had several deals he had to seal first, including the actual one of Arthur's job, which he could not let go awry, especially now that the artist was proving to be oh so interesting.

"I'm sorry for that back there," Alfred murmured, his deep voice quite calming despite Arthur's best efforts to stay angry. "I really mean it, Arthur. You just took me by surprise, that's all..."

Arthur couldn't deny the truth of that, so he just glowered at Alfred until he continued.

"I just named you my personal assistant because that was the neatest explanation," Alfred explained, though he did have ulterior motives for that decision. He just had to wait a bit before he could see whether or not that decision paid off. "With the hours that you spend with me anyway, it would make sense." Alfred smiled. "And who cares what the public thinks? They always get things wrong anyway, don't they?"

Again, Alfred had a point. In fact, he was saying everything that Arthur, ever the independent mind, had thought all his life. The artist didn't like that he was being calmed down by this weird psychological tactic, or that Alfred was doing this eerie mind reading thing either. It was uncanny.

"Plus," the actor added, with a small, somewhat sly smile, "it sure beats that rumor that _could_ circulate, you know?" And judging from the way Arthur's cheeks turned dark crimson, the artist did know.

Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling that the heat in the car was suddenly stifling. Was Alfred's hair looking nicer than usual this morning, or was it just Arthur's imagination?

The artist put his key back in the ignition, turning on the engine just so he could turn back on the air conditioning. This car was almost getting claustrophobic in its sudden proximity, and Arthur could do nothing but let his mind wander back to that moment of fear not so long ago when he had finally finished the makeup job, only to realize the misunderstanding that could have easily arisen from that.

In retrospect, Alfred had actually been incredibly quick-thinking, and that made Arthur thankful. It was a terrible rumor, and one that had to be nipped in the bud immediately. Terrible rumor. Right. Yeah.

It disturbed Arthur greatly that he didn't even fully believe _that_.

He shook his head of those petrifying thoughts and returned his mind to the present situation. Alfred was saying something, though Arthur only managed to catch what he figured was the tail end. He felt guilty for missing some of the dialogue, a feeling which he didn't possess far too often. Alfred was doing weird things to his mind.

"... you'll be famous for a bit, won't you?" Alfred argued. "Your name will be one of the top searches on Google, everyone will learn about your profession and who you are, and you'll get even more press than ever. And as an _extra_ plus, I can now take you to every show, every event without anyone suspecting anything." That last part was spoken with an excited smile, as if it made Alfred unbelievably giddy that he now could do this wonderful thing. Of course, it did make Alfred happy, but not for the reasons that Arthur probably suspected, if any.

Arthur opened his mouth, making feeble noises in an attempt to wipe that eager smile off of Alfred's face. But he couldn't. There was nothing to say. Alfred was right on all counts, and Arthur was just... _confused._

What was there to be angry about? By Alfred's logic, the answer was nothing. Arthur should have been angry about nothing.

And now he just felt plain foolish.

Alfred gave the artist his silence, for it was plain in the artist's bemused expression that Alfred had already won. As he sat there, all Alfred did was thank God that he had been born with a quick wit and a sly tongue. This was the culmination of a plan that Alfred had been slowly forming as he went along, right from the moment Arthur had so suddenly appeared in his life on his wonderful Saturday afternoon. But each step of the way, Arthur had thrown him some curveball or another that had to be artfully dodged. It was quite taxing, actually, having to think this much to just make someone remotely content, let alone capture the person's heart—and Alfred was _loving_ it.

At long last, Arthur finally looked up, his bright green eyes still clouded over in deep thought. The light from the sun outside seemed to be captured within those irises, adding to the depth of their wise contemplation.

Arthur regarded the actor before him with careful scrutiny, still feeling like he had missed something large and important. That seemed to be the case quite often with Alfred, actually, though no matter how much Arthur thought about it, he could never pinpoint just what exactly was amiss.

Finally, he simply started his car in silence, pulled out of the lot without comment, and began on his way once again. Arthur would not apologize, since some part of him still felt angry and rightfully so. Though he no longer knew why, and he felt like he would never know, the artist tended to trust his gut instincts.

However, since he was also greatly ruled by logic, Arthur had to concede that Alfred was almost completely right, and that Arthur had perhaps overreacted a bit. It _did_ help with Arthur's image to be linked so completely with such a star as Alfred. Francis would be overjoyed. And the answer Alfred had given had been a much better answer than one of a chance encounter with his makeup artist for "Viewfinder" on a Saturday afternoon, in which case Arthur was sure they would have been bombarded with questions about the new movie, among other complicated and tricky matters.

Alfred was right. He really was right. But why did that feel so _wrong_?

The actor in question waited patiently, for it seemed like Arthur was going to say something at any moment. He took that time to observe the artist, especially the way his dainty fingers played over the wheel, that skin looking so soft and untouched. Alfred had never had the privilege of feeling those fingers directly upon his skin in the past week, but he was sure the time would come soon enough. Oh, just where he would place those fingers if he had power over their wanton wandering...

The actor was pulled out of the depths of his dark thoughts by Arthur clearing his throat. Arthur was actually feeling a bit thankful at the moment at the fact that Alfred had been so fast on his toes back there. It probably came with practice, and he still felt a bit sorry for having made that accusation that Alfred possessed no talent. But gratefulness and seething anger didn't exactly go hand in hand, so until Arthur could figure out what was going on within his mind and his heart and clear up some of this confusion, he decided to say nothing on the matter.

Alfred glanced expectantly at the artist, who he deemed to be such an utterly frustrating tease for always looking like he was going to say something, and then stopping last minute. It made Alfred want to force it one way or the other, either gag that mouth for good or make it scream out and beg for mercy... But yet again, that was a matter for another time—a time which Alfred vowed silently to himself _would_ come.

"So," Arthur finally began, giving Alfred's imagination some relief. Alfred crossed his long legs, waiting with great outward patience for the artist to go on.

"... What was that you said about going to shows?"

That was it. That was all. No comment about their chase through The Grove, or about the fact that Alfred had just inextricably linked the two of them for at least the next few months with the help of the media. Not even a comment about them being homosexual lovers. Nothing.

Ha! "Are you free tonight?" the actor asked, smirking, though his voice betrayed nothing but innocence.

"I guess. Why?"

"Then give me leave to occupy your evening, and I'll show you just exactly what I meant."

Alfred said this without even asking Kiku. He didn't care. He was rich, and he could live life as he pleased. He could take whomever he wanted, wherever he wanted. But declaring Arthur as his "personal assistant" did make gaining clearance a lot easier and less costly.

Arthur glanced over, startled. "Tonight?"

"Yeah. Do you have anything suitable for a party?"

The artist swallowed. Here fashion was, getting back at him again. Wasn't one punishment today enough?

"Not really..." Arthur admitted with a small shrug, even though he knew the vague reply was basically a direct "no" in this instance. He didn't attend parties all that often. No one ever invited him (aside from Francis, and the day Arthur partied with Francis was the day pigs would fly upside-down).

Holding back a satisfied laugh (which he would reserve for another more private time), the actor leaned back in his seat, a smug smile upon his features. His eyes glinted dangerously, and that was no product of the bright sun shining down upon them.

"Then let's get you something to wear."

Alfred Jones had won yet another round.

* * *

**Notes/Reference:**

"Mise en scène" means the staging of props and stuff to represent where a movie/film is enacted. I like to take that as meaning the setting for the beginning of a story, or where the main action will take place. And in this instance, that is less of a physical locale and more of a mood sort of situation, as in the setting of how Arthur and Alfred are first interacting, just so we have a basis to then develo from there.

* * *

**Author's Comments:  
**

Bear with me. I know that Alfred seems spoiled and insufferable right now, but trust me that he'll change. As much as I want Alfred to break Arthur, I also want Arthur to change Alfred over time into the guy that we all seem to know and love. The one that likes superheroes and wants to be one himself, you know? But it takes time, and I want his character to develop into the good ol' Alfred for real, not just as a front he puts up. So all I ask is a little bit of patience. :P (Of course, this doesn't mean that he turns any less seme. Trust me when I say that there _will_ be hot "unst-unst" later on, and that it will be kinky as hell because that's what I like to write.) This just means that he might _care_ more for Arthur later on, rather than just treat him as yet another sexual conquest. I want their relationship to be real, even though I also want Alfred to fuck Arthur out his mind. (✿ʘ‿ʘ)

As for Arthur, I'm picturing him right now like how England is depicted in his punk rock days. That's sort of his style of clothing, with t-shirts, neck scarves, and nice black jeans. He looks a bit more put together and professional when he is on the job, but take that overarching punk rock style as the general guideline for Arthur now. His personality is a bit like that too, with a bit more of an arrogant flare, a bit rebellious, independent, etc. But deep inside, he's still got an old soul, one who likes to read the actual paper in the morning, and doesn't like loud blasting music, and avoids crowds when he can. Does that make sense at all? He's young England with old England's soul, and over time, hopefully he'll come to have more of young England's soul in there as well.

Sorry for not updating in ages. I've been so swamped with stuff, and I'm still so behind! But I'm making an effort on this fic because I miss it, and I haven't given dear Haku something in a long while. Hopefully I'll be updating ANSCR soon, though I'm not sure how soon, considering I start Freshman orientation at Harvard next week. I'll try to write as much as I can between classes and at break times, though!

Thanks for reading!  
Galythia

P.S. This chapter was meant to go further into the story (all the way into their day on Sunday), but it was getting a bit too long, and I was eager to update. So I've cut this section of the story into smaller chunks (since I love details, and I hope you guys do too). I hope you all don't mind! ;3;


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